


damn your love damn your lies

by talkingismylife



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Sex, Slow Burn, Smut, Sort Of, The Author Regrets Nothing, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-02-10 14:32:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 143,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18662308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingismylife/pseuds/talkingismylife
Summary: in which roger wakes up missing more than just four years of memories, hot space is a hot mess, and john is doing his bestor, the amnesia joger fic no one asked for





	1. if you don't love me now

**Author's Note:**

> like a fine vintage of wine, this fic pairs best with the song _the chain_ by fleetwood mac, from which i stole the title. drink responsibly kiddos
> 
> this fic would not have been possible if it weren't for lo (devereauxing), who cheered me on every step of the way and listened to me when it was nothing more than a silly little idea. hey babe, look at it now! 
> 
> updates are not going to be...the most consistent. seeing as i wrote 17k+ words for chapter one, the next three might be uhhhhh just as long. so bear with me, because i promise this will be finished. might just be slow.

_There was a brief moment of time in which Roger knew neither up nor down. Not that that made any sense, but he felt as though he were underwater, tumbling and turning beneath the waves and desperate to swim up but unable to figure out which way that was. There was no sand below his feet—that he knew of—and no sky above him. Just the water, the salt, the churning, and him._

_Floating._

_Lost._

_And then, like most things in life, there was pain._

 

*

 

Roger awoke slowly, and then all at once. It was hard, at first, to even open his eyes; crud and sleep had stuck his lashes together, making it almost impossible for him to even crack them open as the fine skin at the corners were tight and stiff. It took him a moment, maybe two, just to let them open enough for him to make out the faint shapes of something next to his bed. It was dark in his room, the only light coming from some sort of machine next to his bed and from the tiny window in his door. There was a loud beeping somewhere near him, repetitive and annoying like a metronome that resonated in his brain. With each beep, his head hurt more. He glared at the lumpy shape next to him, willing them to wake up and turn the damn thing off before it drove him insane. 

He made to speak with the intent of alerting the person next to him that he was not only awake but in pain, but when he attempted to, nothing came out. His voice didn’t seem to work. 

“Water,” he tried to rasp, voice nothing more than a croak. The figure didn’t move. Roger tried to clear his throat, coughing weakly. “Water.” 

The figure stirred slightly, but didn’t wake. Roger squeezed his eyes shut as he groaned. He felt as though he were dying—his head was spinning, his throat hurt, his stomach rolled. It felt like he was stuck on one of those spinning teacups, whirling round and round and round with no sign that it would ever stop. And god, the thirst. If he didn’t get water—and soon—he felt as though he would die. It was the Sahara in his mouth, he needed water. 

“Water,” he croaked again, this time reaching out weakly and brushing his fingers across the back of the figure’s hand. “Please.” 

Finally, the person stirred, stretched, and awoke. 

“Wazzat?” they mumbled. Roger closed his eyes again, dazed by the effort of moving his arm. “Rog? Did—are you awake?”

“Water.” 

“Jesus, Roger!” With a cry, the man threw himself onto the bed, jostling Roger’s entire body and forcing a whimper from him. The man drew back; “Shit, Rog, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Are you hurting?” 

“M’thirsty,” Roger said. How many times did he have to ask? He peaked open one eye again, hoping to glare the man into submission. Despite the spins and the ache deep within his head, he was finally able to make out the man who was currently fretting over him. Brian, his best mate and one of his oldest friends, in all his glory. He could have wept for joy. If Brian was here, then everything would be okay. Brian would fix everything. “Brian—”

Brian inhaled sharply. Roger didn’t miss the fact that his eyes looked wet around the edges. 

“Yeah, Rog, that’s right, it’s me,” Brian whispered, reaching out to brush his warm palm across his forehead. “I’m here.” Roger closed his eyes, leaning into his hand like a child. “I don’t—I don’t have any water, okay? But I have some uh, some apple juice? If you want?”

“Please,” he murmured, eyes still squeezed closed. It hurt just to have them open, the light from the monitor aggravating his head. Jesus, would no one turn the damn thing off? 

“Hey, hey, here you go, here’s the juice,” Brian murmured. With one large hand, he cradled the back of Roger’s head, tilting it up just enough for him to raise the lip of the plastic bottle to his mouth. Sweet, slightly warm apple juice flooded his mouth, and he swallowed it down gratefully and desperately. “Whoa, Rog, slow down.” 

Brian made as though he would remove the bottle, which was completely unacceptable. He grabbed for Brian’s wrist—ignoring the shockingly sharp pain that sliced through his head—and held it where it was, chugging as much as he could before it was taken away. 

“Okay, wait, I don’t think you should be drinking this much this fast,” Brian said, trying to move away. “Hang on, seriously, this isn’t—” 

Whatever Brian wanted to say next was cut off by Roger violently gagging on the juice as it came back up, spilling over his lap and bed. He choked as he wretched over and over, each upset hurting him, to the point where he thought his head would split from the force of it all. Dimly, he was aware of Brian shouting for assistance as he shoved a pink basin under his chin, catching as much sick as he could. 

The room soon was filled with a flurry of activity. A nurse in bleached white scrubs hip-checked Brian out of the way as she maneuvered his bed to an upright position, one hand firmly moving to his shoulder in an attempt to keep him from choking on his own bile. The woman rubbed her hand down over his back in soothing circles until he was finished turning his stomach inside out. 

“ _Na na, es wird schon gutgehen_ ,” the woman said. 

“Oh God,” Roger coughed, panicked. He must be having some sort of stroke or an aneurysm, if he’d suddenly lost the ability to understand English. The nurse must have read his panic on his face as she smiled. 

“Sorry,” she said in accented English. “Was German. My English, not so good.” 

Thank God. 

“He just started vomiting, I don’t know what happened!” Brian’s voice had risen dramatically in pitch as he stared at Roger like he was a foreign being in the zoo. 

“You gave him juice?” the woman asked, turning to glare at him. “No juice. Water only.” 

Brian ducked his head sheepishly, watching as the nurse began to efficiently strip his bed, peeling back the soiled sheets and blankets and exposing his legs. Roger drew in a sharp breath at the sight; his left leg was completely wrapped in white gauze, though parts of it had turned faintly pink. _Blood_ , he thought to himself, his stomach turning again. _That's my blood_.

"Herr May," the nurse said, turning to face Brian with a stern expression. "I ask you to leave. I must change Herr Taylor's bandages and gown." 

"Oh," said Brian. "I—"

"It is for his comfort," the nurse continued. " _Bitte_." 

Brian turned to Roger, staring at him and imploring him to let him stay. But Roger was tired, and the thought of his friend watching him get stripped down to his briefs and sponged clean was not exactly on the top of his list. 

"S'okay," Roger murmured, blinking heavily. "M'gonna be okay." 

Brian hesitated, but did as he was told, turning at the door to take one last glance at Roger before the nurse closed the door behind him. 

He was stripped and wiped down with a damp sponge, the nurses' movements quick and efficient. As she moved from his legs to his chest to his arms, Roger took stock of his injuries. His legs, the left one shredded and bloodied. His left arm, too, was wrapped in gauze, though that one he could tell was broken. When he moved his left, he grunted against the sharp burst of pain. Struggling to even raise it, he dragged it across the thin hospital blanket, taking in the thick plaster cast wrapped from knuckles to elbow. Broken. Fuck. He inhaled sharply, which only caused further pain, this time radiating from his chest. Bruises, thick and purple along his right side and chest. His ribs, too, then, potentially broken. He pressed his fingers into the meat of one, and hissed. The nurse scowled, batting his hand away gently and admonishing him soft German. And then, his head. There were no bandages wrapped around his skull, like in the movies. No half shaved hair, either. Just a too large lump and, on the left side of his face, again, a thick patch of gauze. Roger fingered the edge of the tape. What happened to him? 

The last he could recall, they were skiing, in Colorado? No, the Alps, no—it was cold. He was cold. He shivered. He had always been a bad skier, hadn't he, and he had been going to fast, too quick, and someone was yelling after him to slow down and then—

Nothing.

"I dress you now," the nurse said, startling him from his memory. Roger nodded, allowing himself to be dressed carefully and quickly. When she was done tying him back into a fresh gown, she brought him a warmed blanket and threw it over his lap, tucking his legs in like a mother would. "Sleep, now. I will bring water for when you wake." 

"Thanks," Roger murmured, his eyes growing heavy from the weight and heat of the blanket. Distantly, he could hear the door opening and Brian calling his name, but it was too late. Without much resistance, Roger slipped back into his dreams. 

 

*

 

Roger was underwater, again. But this time, he wasn't alone. There, far off, blurred by salt and sand, and his shit eye sight, was someone. They, too, were suspended by the water, floating just in front of him. He could barely make out who they were, all he could see was long, dark hair that curled around the pale curve of their neck. He struggled to make out more, to see who it was, but the closer he got, the further away they floated, always out of reach. 

But the hair, curling over a pillow, soft between his fingers, sweet smelling as he burrowed his face into it. He knew who that was, he knew that hair. He knew who it was, he had to, he knew, he knew, he knew—

_Dominique._

That's right, they were skiing, he was hurt, he was in the hospital, just resting his eyes, she would be there. If he could open his eyes again, he'd see her, she'd be there. He just had to wake up, he just had to call for her, and all this—this nightmare—would be over. 

"Dom..." 

He could feel the scratch of her name against his throat. Muted, he could hear someone calling his name as hands reached down into the water to brush his hair off his forehead, warm against the frigid ice of the ocean. 

"Roger? Roger, dear, can you hear me?" 

"Dom," he whispered, trying so hard to pull himself out of the ocean, pull himself back to her. 

"What's he saying? Fred, can you hear?" 

It was slow, like swimming through syrup, but Roger was able to slowly open his eyes, blinking heavily so as to clear the hazy film of sleep. 

Warm, dark eyes were staring over him, blocking the worst of the light from blinding him again. The face pulled back, revealing a grinning Freddie. Roger frowned, squinting up at him. It wasn't his Freddie though. This Freddie had short hair that curled slightly over his ears, and a thick, dark mustache. He looked older, as well, but that could be—that wasn't—

"You cut your hair," Roger grunted, furrowing his brow. "When did you cut your hair?" 

Freddie startled, "What? Roger—" 

"Freddie," Brian said, cutting him off. "Don't. I'll get the doctor." 

"Your hair," Roger repeated, the words heavy in his too dry mouth. 

"You like it?" Freddie asked. His voice sounded fragile against the tension of the room. "I thought it was time for a change." 

"S'different." 

Freddie let out a weak chuckle, "Yes, darling, I suppose it is." 

His mouth was dry. Smacking his lips, he looked towards the table by his feet, hoping the nurse had brought him more water. 

"Damnit, Roger, of course I'm sorry. Are you thirsty?" Freddie didn't wait for his answer, hurrying instead to bring him a Styrofoam cup of ice chips, which he carefully fed into Roger's too dry mouth. The ice melted on his tongue deliciously, and he found himself closing his eyes in pleasure. "Brian told us what happened. He's not always the brightest, hmm? I half thought Deacy was going to kill him when he heard. Spent ten whole minutes chewing him out for not following the doctor's orders." 

Roger hummed before opening his mouth for more. Freddie fed him another, using his thumb to carefully wipe away a drop of water from the corner of his mouth. 

"You know, blondie, you gave us all a right fright; Deacy especially. From now on, you're never allowed out of the house without some sort of protection." 

"M'kay," he murmured. "How's Dom?" 

"Hmm? Oh, he's fine, just resting. Once we realized you waking up only to vomit apple juice was a fluke, we sent him back to the hospital's cot room to catch some more sleep. If you stay awake long enough for the doctors to come, we'll go fetch him. But it looks like you won't be." 

Roger cracked open his eye. "No, I will."

Freddie chuckled, smoothing his hand down one arm to tangle their fingers together. "You can sleep, Rog. Don't worry, you just lie there and look pretty." 

Roger hummed thoughtfully and allowed his eyes to drift shut again. "Wake me when Dom comes," he slurred. 

He fell asleep.

 

* 

 

It was day when he finally woke up, soft light filtering in through his window. He blinked heavily and raised his hand to rub his eyes. Or he would have, had it not been clutched in someone's hand. He followed the line of the man's arm up over the thick knitted jumper to find a headful of short auburn curls. Roger frowned. Moving ever so carefully, so as to not hurt his head again, he tried to untangle his fingers from the man's. 

It didn't work. 

With a hum, the man twitched in his sleep, his fingers squeezing on Roger's as he yawned, shifting his head against the edge of the mattress where it was resting. 

"Hey," Roger whispered, trying to wake him up fully so he could not only let go of his hand, but go get his friends. "Wake up."

The man shifted again before slowly rising. Roger was shocked to realize that it wasn't some random stranger. 

" _Deacy?_ " 

Roger felt like the bottom had dropped out from underneath him. The last time he had seen John, he had been fresh faced and young, smiling from underneath long, dark hair. This, this was not his John. This John had the beginnings of crow's feet around his eyes, and smile lines that had etched into the corners of his mouth. This John had what looked like _chest hair_ peeking out from underneath the collar of his jumper. This John was _old_. 

Memories from before flooded his mind. Freddie, with short hair and a mustache, one that was too thick for him to have grown overnight. Brian, too, looked different, his face less thin, cheekbones rounded rather than the sharp cuts they had been when he had see him last. They had _aged_.

Suddenly, he felt ill. Yanking his hand from John's, he pressed both to his face, scrubbing his fingertips over his forehead and his eyes, to his mouth, trying to feel if he, too, looked as different as John.

"Hey, hey, Roger, be careful—"

"What's happening?" Roger demanded, turning to look at him in terror. "You look—and _Freddie_ , he's so—everything—"

"Slow down, I can't understand you—"

"You're too _old_. It's all _wrong!_ " 

Fear beat like a trapped bird in his chest. _How long had he been asleep?_ He repeated it to Deacy, watching as his eyes widened and jaw dropped. _Fuck._

"No," Roger said. "No, no, okay, how long? Deacy, _how long?_ "

"Two days, that's all," John told him, reaching once more for his hands, trying to get him to stop poking at his head. His head. It hurt, throbbing, and aching. He felt sick, and dizzy. 

"M'gonna be sick," he coughed before he retched, barely making it into the basin John shoved under his chin. Roger had never felt so horrible in all his life—his head was pounding and his stomach churning but above all, panic had set in in his chest. Everything was wrong. John and Freddie, there was no way they could have changed so much in _two days_. Sure, they could have cut their hair, but to grow a mustache? To have wrinkles set in? There's no way it had just been two fucking days. Something was _wrong_. "Something's wrong, Deaks. Something's wrong." 

"What's wrong? What do you mean?" John asked him, voice pinched and tight with worry. Roger choked on his own spit. 

"Everything," he gurgled. When he finally stopped, he fell back against the pillow, eyes clenched tight. He felt like he was trapped on a boat, rocking and shaking atop the waves, unable to soothe his stomach. "S'all wrong." 

"Sh, sh, it's going to be okay. It's just the fracture, Rog, you're just confused. Let me ring for the doctor, he'll explain," John murmured, reaching to sooth a hand over his hair, inexplicably gentle. "It's just the fracture. You're gonna be fine." 

"S'all wrong," Roger repeated, turning into the warmth of Deacy's hand. He closed his eyes all the more tighter, willing himself to wake up from his dream. "All wrong." 

 

 *

 

The doctor arrived in a flurry of white coats and tests. Roger's bed was moved to a more upright position, which did little to help the spinning of his head, but did allow him to finally meet everyone's eye level. John was there, still perched at his bedside, Freddie and Brian on his other side, all three worried and tense in the silence. The doctor—Dr. Mitchell—shone a light in his eyes and pressed thick fingers into the back of his skull, taking note when Roger cried out in pain. He snapped his fingers next to his ears; lifted Roger's one good hand and dropped it into his lap; and finally, asked him to remember a series of numbers before reciting them back. If you had asked Roger, he would have thought he passed all the tests with flying colors, but gauging by the rest of the room's worried glances, he gathered that he probably wasn't doing as well as he had assumed. 

"Well, Mr. Taylor, it's as we feared," Dr. Mitchell sighed. "The skull fracture has lead to a severe concussion. I think we—"

"Skull fracture?" Roger grunted, eyeing him wearily. "What the fuck do you mean by that." 

Next to him, John drew in a harsh breath that was matched by Freddie's low curse. "Roger—"

Dr. Mitchell frowned. "Mr. Taylor, I'm going to ask you a few more questions. Can you please tell me your date of birth?" 

"What does that—"

"Roger," John interrupted, warningly. "Answer his questions." 

"July 26, 1949," he recited. 

"What are the names of the people in this room?" Dr. Mitchell asked with crossed arms. Roger sighed but did as he was told, noticing how Brian seemed to relax. "And can you tell me what happened?" 

Roger opened his mouth to respond, but paused. Scrunching up his face, he frowned as he tried to recall the accident. 

The doctor, noticing his struggle, nodding encouragingly. "It's perfectly alright if there's any confusion, that's to be expected. Most patients actually struggle to recall how the accident happened, or thereafter. Just tell me as much as you recall." 

Roger closed his eyes and _focused_. It was cold, and someone was screaming his name. Dark hair, curled on his pillow. Pain, lots of pain. His head, it hurt. And there was a rush, a fall, the scream, and then, it all seemed to click in his brain. Of course.

"I...I was skiing? With Dom. And I was...I was going too fast," he said, sounding out each word carefully. "She tried to get me to stop, but I—I couldn't. That's...that's all I remember." 

Next to him, Freddie drew in a deep breath, "Roger—" 

But Dr. Mitchell cut him off, "As I said, confusion is normal with these kinds of head injuries. Mr. Taylor, what year is it?" 

If he and Dom had been skiing, that would make it, what, 1977? Yes, of course, that had to be right, and he told them as much. 

He didn't have to look at the others to know he was wrong, Dr. Mitchell's face expressed it all. His gentle smile disappeared, replaced with one of mild horror. Roger shrunk back against his pillows. 

"1978?" he tried, desperate. Next to him, John let out a weak, shaky breath as he squeezed his hand. 

"Mr. Taylor, the current date is January 4, 1982."

After the revelation that Roger had managed to lose _four years_ of his life, all hell broke loose. Freddie, unsurprisingly, was the most dramatic. With a wail, he threw himself onto Roger's chest, clutching at him tightly as he wept into the thin fabric of his hospital gown. Brian, also unsurprisingly, immediately began demanding answers from Dr. Mitchell. But it was John who Roger watched, whose reaction made the least sense. John sat there, next to him, his hand still in his, and remained quiet. No questions, no hysterics, just silence. Until, with very little fanfare and glazed eyes, he let go of Roger, stood up carefully, and left. 

No one but Roger noticed. 

"—there are tests, yes, Mr. May, but we cannot guarantee—" 

"—Roger, darling, tell me you haven't forgotten—"

"—this has to be a mistake—"

"—sometimes, yes, memories can return, but—"

All the chaos was causing Roger's head to hurt. Their voices grew to be too loud, echoing and thundering within his skull. He closed his eyes again against the pain, and fought against Freddie's hold to try and cover his ears. He needed them to be quieter, to be silent. He needed to sleep, needed to process. He was the one who lost his whole life, and now they were causing him to lose his brain, as well. 

"Please," Roger said, his voice no louder than a whisper. "Please, my head—"

"—I'm going to do everything in my power to fix you," Freddie was telling him, his voice sounding so loud in their close quarters. " _Everything_ , I swear, even if we have to get rid of this _hack_ of a doctor." 

"Fred," Roger tried. "Please." 

"No, no, darling, I _promise_ —"

"We'll take good care of him. I'll have a psychologist come—"

"—Yes, I've heard of some therapies—"

"My _head!_ " Roger finally yelped. "Please!" 

The room fell silent, but it was too late. His head was splitting into two; he was breaking apart from the top of his skull to the root of his chin, and no one was listening. He squeezed his eyes shut, listening distantly as the doctor ordered for more morphine and for the room to be cleared. Within minutes, the pain in his head began to recede, floating away as Roger, too, drifted off to sleep, giving little thought to what he was missing. 

 

*

 

"... _Roger!_ " 

"Shh, Freddie, don't! You heard the doctor, he needs to sleep—"

"Oh, fuck the doctors, Brian. I just want to see if maybe he's remembered, now that he's rested some more." 

"It doesn't work like that, how many times do I have to tell you?" 

"Look, if anyone could do it, it would be Rog, alright? And what's the harm, if he's tired, he can just...go back to sleep!" 

"If you wake him up, I'll tell Deacy—"

"Fine, do it, Brian. I'll tell him you gave him more apple juice, how does that sound?"

"I didn't!"

Roger groaned and twitched. Freddie and Brian immediately began shushing each other.

"Damnit, Brian, look what you did! He's _waking up!_ "

"Freddie, what the—this was _your_ idea!" 

"...what?" Roger whispered, keeping his eyes squeezed tight. "What's happening...?" 

"Shhh, it's alright," Freddie said quietly, his voice gentle and soft, unlike before. "It's nothing, Brian was just being loud." 

There was a thump, and muffled yelp. 

"Ignore Freddie," Brian ordered. "Go back to sleep." 

Roger fought the urge to do as he was told, cracking one eye open enough to blink blearily at the two. 

"What's happening?" he repeated. Freddie turned to Brian, unable to hide his panic. 

"He's forgotten more!" 

"What the hell is going on?" John demanded as he entered the room, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. "I left for five minutes— _what is he doing awake?_ "

"Brian was talking too loud!" Freddie held his hands up as though in surrender, ignoring Brian's betrayed gasp. "He woke up Roger!" 

John's head whipped towards Brian, fixing him with a glare that promised Brian would get the dressing down of a lifetime. Holding open the door, he gestured for the two of them to leave. "That's it, both of you, out." 

"What? John—"

"—That's so unfair! I've done nothing—"

" _Out_." 

Like shamed children, Freddie and Brian slunk out of the hospital room, casting wounded and vaguely furious glances over at Roger before John closed the door firmly behind them. He sighed once, long and drawn out, before he turned towards Roger. His gaze was calculating, and wearied, as though he was worried about what he would find.

"Hi, Rog," he said finally, his voice tired. "How are you feeling?"

It was still unnerving to see this John instead of the one he was used to, and he swallowed uncomfortably. Four years, _gone_. Just like that. Roger fought the urge to scream in frustration, knowing that it would only be worse in the long run. John shifted in place, watching him carefully, his whole face pinched. _It's not right_ , Roger thought. _Deacy shouldn't look that worried._

"Like shit," Roger grunted. He was pleased to see the corners of John's mouth twitch. 

"That's to be expected," John shrugged, coming to sit down in the chair next to Roger's bed, which he appreciated. His eyesight wasn't very good, and the head injury certainly didn't help. "You know, if you need to, you can go back to sleep. I'll just sit here and keep you company." 

"Feels like I've been sleeping enough." 

John nodded, just the once, "It might. But the doctor's say that sleep will help you heal faster."

"Sleep's not gonna bring back the past four years, will it?" 

John flinched and looked down at his hands. Roger felt like an ass; "Too soon?" 

John said nothing, unable to meet his eyes. He took a deep breath, his fingers flexing into the wrinkles of his jeans. 

"The doctors said—" John paused, cleared his throat. "The doctors said you might, um, have remembered. More." 

Roger frowned, crinkling his nose. "Erm, I don't...I'm not sure. I don't know what I, uh, what I should be...trying to remember."

"Oh."

"You could, uh, ask me a question? Maybe?"

This time, it was John's turn to frown. "We were told telling you things will create false memories, and that we should let it come back to you...organically." 

"Sounds like a lotta horse shit," Roger muttered, closing his eyes again. His head was beginning to ache again, but he tried to ignore it. He didn't want to stop speaking with Deacy, didn't want to go back to sleep. John, however, always the observant one, noticed his discomfort. 

"If you need to, go back to sleep," John insisted. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach out and touch him, but he restrained himself, "You can sleep, it'll be fine." 

Roger hummed, closing his eyes. He could hear John rustling in his seat, like he was about to stand up. His eyes flew open as he turned to him, his heart suddenly beating too fast in his chest. "Don't leave," he heard himself say, an unknown sense of desperation creeping over him at the thought. "Don't leave me." 

John startled, his eyes wide, before his gaze softened into something unreadable. "I won't, Rog, I promise. I'll be here when you wake." As if to prove it, John opened the newspaper to the opinions section and began to read aloud softly, barely louder than a murmur. 

Settling back against the pillow, Roger allowed himself to let go fully, comforted by the idea that John would be there, waiting for him to wake. 

 

 *

 

Roger awoke in the morning, finally feeling the best he had in a long while. John, true to his promise, had stayed by his side the whole time, greeting him with another crinkle-eyed smile that only grew in size as Roger announced how he felt. The ever present ache in his head had dulled from a sharp pain to something easily ignored, and his vision had finally stopped swimming with each movement he made. 

When he informed the doctor of his prognosis, they had allowed him to attempt to stand, his first time since he had arrived in hospital. They'd unhooked his catheter—which was a horribly embarrassing and terrible thing he'd hoped never to go through again—and temporarily freed him from his IV's. First, he'd been helped to an upright position, which was much more difficult than Roger had ever assumed would be. Then, once he was properly upright, he was made to dangle his legs over the edge of the bed. 

"What's this for?" Roger panted, unbelievably knackered just from moving to the edge of the bed. 

"Making sure you won't faint," the nurse informed him cheerfully from his left side. John, who'd claimed his right, stiffened minutely. 

"Is that a risk?" he asked, reading Roger's mind.

"It's similar to when you stand too fast after lying down," the nurse explained. "Blood rushes south, and you can faint. We won't let him stand until he know he's not a risk." 

"I'm used to blood rushing south," Roger muttered, determinedly attempting to ignore the creeping darkness at the periphery of his vision.

"Well, he's not," John said, more confident than Roger felt. 

"Is the room always this dark?" Roger heard himself say, his voice distorted as his head began to swim. He had just enough time to recognize John's panicked yelp of his name before he started to fall backwards. He came back to himself laying down, his nurse frowning over him.

"Too soon," she announced, leaning over to reattach his IV. "We'll try again later." 

"M'fine," he slurred, eyes heavy as he blinked. "Jus' wanted to make sure y'guys knew what t'do." 

"Of course, Herr Taylor," she smiled. She moved, revealing a pale John perched back on the chair, the corners of his mouth pinched. 

"You should have said something," John snapped. "What if you'd been standing?" 

"That's why m'legs were danglin'," Roger supplied. "So we'd know." 

"You're an idiot." 

Roger grinned, "We already knew that, Deaks." 

 

* 

 

The whole story was retold in typical dramatic fashion once Freddie and Brian arrived, bringing with them a cup of steaming coffee for John, which Roger watched in envy. 

"Not allowed for invalids," Freddie sang, dangling the cup just out of his reach. " _Especially_ not invalids that chug apple juice twenty-four hours after a major head injury and get sick all over themselves." 

"I'll remember this," Roger grumbled, ignoring Freddie's stricken expression. "When are they going to let me eat real food?"

"When you can keep down water," John said around the rim of his cup. "Until then, you're restricted to ice and water."

"I'll waste away to nothing at this rate." 

"Poor you," drawled John with a cocked brow. Roger couldn't help but giggle, settling back against the pillow and allowing Freddie and Brian's chatter to wash over him.

 

 

 

After an hour of visitation, Dr. Mitchell brought in the hospital psychologist, Dr. Müller, who asked to speak with Roger alone. The three of them left, leaving him to face down the shrink on his own. She was a no-nonsense woman, with a stern face and furrowed brow, but she spoke in lightly accented English and did her best to be as gentle as possible. 

They discussed how he felt, what he knew, and if he was worried about anything. At first uncomfortable confessing his emotional state to someone he’d only just met, Roger could feel himself warming up to her after a couple of minutes. It was, he knew, her job; a job she couldn’t do if he picked at his blanket reticently and gave her only one word answers. 

"I'm just confused," Roger confessed, his eyes turned downward to track the slow destruction he was wreaking on his blanket with his uninjured hand. "Four years...it's a lot." 

"Ja," Dr. Müller nodded when he ducked a glance at her. "But we see cases like these, where the patient remembers once the head recovers. The best you can do is work on healing yourself. The memories will come in time." 

There was a lump in his throat, and he fought to swallow it. "What...what if they—what if they don't?"

Dr. Müller sighed, lowering the pen she was using to keep notes. "Sometimes, this happens. The brain heals, but the memories do not. In that case, you move on. You work on making new memories, and rely on the memories of others to help you." 

Roger wanted to feel rage, wanted to yell and throw things and scream at her answer, call her a bitch and kick her out. But he was too tired. Instead, he merely leaned back and closed his eyes. He sniffled, just once, quickly reaching up to swipe at the few traitorous tears that escaped. 

"That's bullshit," he coughed wetly. She hummed in agreement. 

"That's life." 

"Fuck that." 

She laughed, "You have good friends, Herr Taylor. They will help you. Rely on them, and they will pull you through. Until then, I want you to keep a diary, a place to write down what you remember, what you think you do, and how you feel. It will help you heal." 

Roger scowled. "I'm not a sixteen year old girl, Doc." 

"I never said you were. This is to make sure that you can keep track of what you remember, what you don't. It might help with your anxiety; if you are writing down what comes back, you have less of a chance of forgetting again." 

The thought of it did make him feel better. A place to record everything, just in case. He could always run the memories past Freddie, get a date and time for that which he forgot. He nodded, agreeing to her suggestion. 

She continued, walking him through exercises for when he grew to be overwhelmed, or if he fell into a panic attack, like the one he'd had when he'd first seen John older than he'd remembered. By the time their hour was up, Roger felt almost as though he were ready to face whatever else life threw at him. _Almost_. 

 

 

 

Dr. Müller left him with her number and an appointment for him to come back in a week, with strict instructions to call should his memory return. This time, it was only John who came back into his room, taking up his place next to his bed. 

"Good talk?" he asked, his face still guarded. 

"Learned some mumbo-jumbo," Roger shrugged. "Have to buy a diary. Nothing too exciting." 

"A diary?" 

"Supposed to write down my memories and shit," he explained. "In case they start coming back."

John nodded appreciatively. "That's...not the worst idea, actually. I can grab you one. I'll make sure it's pink and sparkly, just for you." 

"I'd expect nothing less from you," Roger smiled. John returned his smile with his own, small and sweet despite the awkwardness of this whole situation.

They sat in silence for a few moments, and Roger was both surprised and not to discover that it wasn't uncomfortable. But then again, it never was with Deacy. He was always close with Deacy, maybe because they were the youngest, or maybe because they'd always _fit_. When him and Veronica had broken up, back in '74, it was Roger's house that he'd moved into. As far as Roger was concerned, they were _still_ living together. But now—now everything was wrong. John was more a stranger to him than his best friend. He had forgotten so much; who knew what had changed? 

"What's happened, the past couple of years?" Roger asked with a quick glance down at John's left hand. No ring. "Find yourself a nice girl?" 

John flinched again, pulling a face, "Erm, no. No nice girl." 

"Any kids?"

John huffed out a shocked laugh, "No, definitely not." 

Roger nodded carefully before asking his next question. He felt as though he already knew the answer, "When did Dom and I break up?" 

John startled. "Did you remember?"

"No," Roger looking down at his hands. "I figured when, uh, when she wasn't here. She wouldn't've—Dom wasn't like that. If we were still together, she'd, uh. She'd be here."

There was a pause, then a deep breath, "1978. You broke up in 1978."

Roger nodded. "Was it...was it my fault?" 

"No, Rog. I think you both just realized you wanted different things. If it helps, you're still friends. In fact, Freddie gave her a call when you woke up, let her know you were doing alright." 

"That was nice of him," Roger said quietly. It hurt, he couldn't lie. He fell asleep in arguably the best relationship he'd ever had and woken up four years later only to discover it'd barely lasted two years. Roger loved Dom, deeply. But somewhere in between, he'd stopped. He'd lost so much, and knew so little about himself, his friends, _everything_.

"This sucks," Roger finally sighed. "I feel like I'm introducing myself to you all over again. 'Married?'; 'Got any hobbies?'; 'Ever cried in the shower over _Close Encounters_ while black out drunk?'. Christ." 

That drew a deeper laugh from John, bright in the din of the room, "That was you, not me." 

Roger grinned cheekily, "Are you sure? Sounds like something you would do." 

"Considering I was the one who had to clean you up afterwards, I'm pretty damn sure." 

"Hey, at least I made it up to you! What was it, breakfast at Wimpy's? Really made sure to spend top dollar on you as a 'thank you'."

He was absolutely delighted to see that John's eyes still crinkled when he smiled. Less so at the realization that he couldn’t remember the smiles that had led to his crow’s feet, that he didn’t know how many of those smiles he’d been responsible for.

"If I recall correctly, you ate half my chips and then begged me for ten pence for the tip." 

"At least I had the decency to tip!"

"At least," John scoffed lightly. This felt more natural, more like how he remembered; all laughter and teasing. 

"I'm sure I've only gotten more generous in my old age," Roger blustered, all fake confidence over John's chuckles. After all, for all he knew, he could have become more of an arse. "In fact, as a thank you for sitting by my bedside, I'll make sure to take you out for _dinner_. A right proper date." 

John stopped laughing abruptly, his face falling. Roger panicked, unsure of where he went wrong. He suddenly felt like he was on shaky ground; one wrong step and he'd be falling off a cliff he didn't know existed, "Er, I mean—"

"No, no, it's just—" John cut himself off, refusing to meet his gaze again. "It's hard. To hear. That you, uh. You don't remember. You're not old, Rog." 

"Easy for you to say, you didn't wake up four years older without any of the fun of aging," Roger said, completely unable to keep the bite from his tone. "I don't even know what happened to me, you all look different..." 

A hand found his, entwining their fingers. 

"I promise you, Roger, it's going to be alright. The doctors, they have high hopes for a full recovery, memory and all. They think it'll just take a few more days, for the worst of the concussion to pass." 

Roger bit his lip to hold back everything he was thinking. How could things get better when they were already so terrible? How could anyone right this? 

He faked a smile, "Well, if it's a John Deacon promise, then I know it'll all work out." 

John squeezed his hand tighter, allowing him to fall silent once more.

 

 *

 

It took another day, but Roger was able and allowed to finally stand up to go to the bathroom. Granted, the nurse—Sabine—stood in the room with him, making sure he didn't faint. As if that weren't bad enough, he was forbidden to pee standing up, and was forced to sit on the toilet due to, once again, him being a fainting risk. 

"This is demoralizing," Roger bitched as he steadfastly ignored her. For his privacy, she was turned away from him, but that didn't prevent him from being aware that a stranger, and a female, to boot, was listening to him piss. 

"Hospital policy," she explained once more. "It would be horrible for us all if you fell and hit your head." 

"There are other ways of getting to see me naked, love," Roger teased in a poor attempt to mask his humiliation. "Few of them require me to be in a loo." 

"My husband would not approve," Sabine said plainly. 

"Lucky bastard." 

"Yes." 

Roger reached down, trying to work his briefs back over his knees. It was hard with only one hand, and made all the more difficult by the fact that he was still seated. Sabine heard him struggle, and turned around to assist him. Roger yelped, moving quickly to cover his bits. 

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," she admonished. "Now move your hands so I can help you up." 

Roger flamed scarlet, closing his eyes and praying for it to be over. She helped him to his feet quickly, and, quicker still, had him properly dressed with the hospital gown righted in mere moments. Still holding onto him, she led him to the sink and watched him wash his hands. Roger took the time to look at himself in the mirror for the first time since the accident. 

His hair, which had once been long, was now shorter, shaggier, too. A different shade of blonde than he'd recalled, lighter. He had a few wrinkles—nothing too extreme—but gone was the overwhelming flush of youth, the roundness in his cheeks. He looked older, but not _old_ , which he guessed was a blessing in and of itself. There was still road rash, deep and bloody on his cheek, scabbed over in some parts, and others, covered by gauze to protect from germs. There were bags under his eyes that would be better off referred to as bruises, deep purple and vicious under the bright florescent lights of the hospital. It was unnerving to see, and he looked away. With a final shake of his hands, Sabine helped escort him back to his bed. 

"That wasn't so terrible, was it?" she asked as she tucked him back into bed. Roger refused to meet her gaze. 

"I'm afraid we'll now have to be married," he finally said, aiming for a joking tone. "I've never been touched by a woman and now I've been tainted." 

Sabine snorted, "I highly doubt that, Herr Taylor. You might not remember, but I recall when you first arrived. You were not very quiet. You had many an opinion on the nurses." 

At that, Roger grinned wickedly, "I'm sure each and every thing I said was true." 

"Roger, if you terrorize _another_ nurse, they'll remove us from the hospital," John sighed, coming back into the room with another newspaper and cup of coffee. He also, Roger was excited to see, had a hospital tray in hand. 

"Whatcha got there?" Roger demanded, squinting to try and make out what it could be. 

"Your reward," John smiled, settling into into his chair and placing the tray beside him. "You've been upgraded to real food." 

"About time," he whooped, making gimme hands. "What is it? A sandwich? Burger? Fish and chips? Tell me I can have sausage pie. Or—or—sushi!" 

John grimaced, "None of those, unfortunately. But just remember, it's better than ice chips and water." 

Roger watched in horror as he was handed a bowl of plain chicken broth. "What the fuck is this?" 

"Soup," John squinted. "There should be rice in there." 

"That's it?!" 

"Something to think about next time you wind up in the hospital." At least that hadn't changed. No matter how many years would pass, John would always have a sharp tongue and even sharper wit. And he was right; this was better than nothing. 

With a defeated sigh and a heavy heart, Roger picked up the spoon he was handed and began working his way through the broth. John unfurled the newspaper and softly began reading aloud, his voice steady and comforting.

 

 *

 

It took him three more days before they'd let him leave the hospital. Hospital policy required him to be able to keep solids down for at least twenty-four hours and to no longer have crippling dizzy and fainting spells before he'd be allowed home. He had a close call wherein they'd thought he would be allowed home, but after standing too fast to go pee, he had fainted straight into Sabine and Freddie's arms. 

("It was so romantic, Roger, you have no idea," Freddie announced once they had calmed him down from his subsequent freak out at having saved Roger from potentially breaking his skull further. His eyes were still red. "You just swooned, like a Disney princess." 

John, who had been outside on the phone with Miami at the time, was less impressed, "There is a _reason_ you're supposed to dangle your legs before you stand. That's a whole 'nother day you'll be here, all because you couldn't listen to instructions!")

Frankly, it didn't matter when they let him leave, just that they did. Roger had been going crazy in his hospital bed, ready to to get back to normal. Granted, it wouldn't be his version of normal; Roger's normal was his little flat in London with John in his spare bedroom, Freddie and Brian just a few blocks away. Normal was them four years younger. Normal was being twenty-seven and stupid, enjoying his fame to the extreme with his friends. Normal was not being stuck in a hospital bed and feeling like he was constantly lost. 

He was told he'd be living with John, as it wasn't safe for him to live on his own while he was still injured and mentally unsound—Brian's words, not his own, and the source of his and John's latest quarrel. That, too, was new to him. The fact that John and Brian didn't appear to be getting along as well as they had before, sniping pointed words at one another and shooting chilly glares across the room. Freddie, who was somehow still the same and yet different, had waved off his worries with an assurance that it was just due to high tensions regarding Roger's near-death and the stress of a new record. 

"Nothing you need worry about, darling," Freddie chuckled. "Just you focus on getting better." 

Better.

Roger wanted to cut that word from his and everyone else's vocabulary. How could he ever get better when he didn't even know anymore what that meant? Sure, he could heal up physically, and yes, it would be nice to be able to take a piss standing up again or to be able to watch television without feeling like he was going to split apart at the temples. And sure, the cast on his arm sucked and itched and the scrapes on his legs sometimes twinged and prevented him from taking a _real_ shower. But the fact of the matter was that no matter how much he healed, or how diligent he was about keeping his bandages dry and his head from pounding, Roger still was missing four years of his life. 

He didn't know what album they were working on, or when their last concert was. He didn't know half the staff that Freddie mentioned were working under him, or even where in Munich their recording studio was. Hell, he hadn't even realized they were _in_ Munich when he'd woken up. They kept talking about how wonderful it would be once he rejoined them in the studio, but Roger didn't know any of the songs they had created in the four-year-gap in his head, let alone be able to play them. Drums and concussions did not go hand in hand. 

So, no, he couldn't get better until he could remember, and, despite being the only one with a head injury, it looked like he was the only one who understood that. 

It was only made all the more evident when John pulled into the driveway of the little two-story house he was renting. Roger had been strapped into the backseat so that he could lay down with his eyes closed, to prevent him from getting dizzy or carsick. He usually loved to look out the window, watch the scenery go by, but today, the very thought alone caused his stomach to roll. John had turned the radio down low, humming softly under his breath as he maneuvered his way down the winding Munich roads back to his house. 

"Almost there," he said, just as soft. Roger hummed in response. "I'll get you straight into bed, maybe bring you some toast? And you can just go back to sleep. Sound good?"

"Mhmm." 

"And then you can sleep as long as you want, tomorrow." 

Roger hummed again. 

He could feel he car slowing to a stop as John hit the blinker, pulling into the driveway with slow, methodical movements so as to not disturb his head further. 

"What are all these cars doing here?" John muttered, his annoyance evident. "Oh fuck, Fred—" John yanked the car into park, cursing under his breath. "Stay there," he snapped, ignoring the fact that there was no where for Roger to go.

With a slam of the car door, the sound reverberating around Roger’s skull like a ping pong ball made of lead, John stormed up the gravel driveway and into the house. Roger, still largely immobile, lay in the car. Keeping his eyes closed, he focused on the calming breaths Dr. Müller had taught him. It wasn't Deacy's fault he had forgotten about his inability to move, just like it wasn't Roger's fault for being upset over it. All he could do was breathe and try to fight off the worst of the pain. 

He couldn't quite tell how long he had spent alone in the car, but it was long enough for the heat to have faded just enough for him to shiver minutely. Thankfully it wasn't much longer before John came back, his steps heavy on the gravel. 

"Fucking Freddie," he grunted as he heaved himself back into the car, twisting so as to turn to look back at where Roger still lay prone. "Okay, so Freddie did what Freddie always does, and he's thrown you a welcome home party." 

Roger felt as though he would vomit, anxiety curdling in his throat, "What?"

"I know, I know. I don't know _why_ he thought it would be a good idea, but I guess he was hoping that seeing everyone would jog your memory? Who knows. But there are about twenty people in the house. Do you want me to drive you over to Brian's, instead? Just for the night. We can come back here tomorrow, when everyone's gone." 

The thought of being moved, again, made his head throb. All he wanted was to curl up in his own bed, and put a cool flannel over his eyes and sleep until the pain went away. But if Freddie had gone through all this, just to try and jog his memory, than he owed it to him to at least make an effort. 

"No," he sighed. "I'll be fine. Just...help me in? I don't want people seeing me look this terrible, they might get the wrong idea." 

"Rog, I'm not sure this is a good idea. I can go tell everyone to go home. You need your rest." 

"All I've been doing is resting," Roger argued. "At least let me say hi! And I promise, I'll tell you the second I start to feel bad." 

He cracked open one eye enough to glance over at John, who worrying his bottom lip under his teeth, examining him carefully. Conscious of his position laying across the backseat like an invalid, Roger did his best to look healthy and strong enough to handle a party. For the briefest moment he was sure he had failed when John let out a long and troubled sigh. 

"You get one hour," he relented. "But! The moment it looks like you're having a flare up, or that you can't handle it, I'm sending everyone home Freddie be damned." 

"That's all I can ask for," Roger grinned, moving to release his seatbelt. "Now, help me up, I've got some guests to entertain."

It took him a bit longer than anticipated to get out of the car. First, he had to sit upright, then twist himself so that his legs were dangling. And then, he had to figure out _how_ to get out. It took John crawling in behind him and helping him scoot all the way to the edge, then running around to tug on his arms until he could move for him just to be able to stand. Then, with a careful arm around his waist and another clinging to his bicep, John carefully and slowly helped him walk from the driveway, down the little brick path, and up towards the door of the little two-story. He felt like the Scarecrow from _The Wizard of Oz_ , losing stuffing with each step he took. They paused at the threshold, allowing Roger the chance to catch his breath and John to offer his final warning. 

"If at any point, you feel even the slightest twinge, I want you to let me know," John warned, careful to steady him as he redistributed his weight so as to open the door. "I swear Roger, none of that stupid suffering in silence shit you usually pull." 

"I swear," Roger grunted as he fought to keep his balance. There was no point in letting John know that his head was already beginning to hurt, just from the exertion of walking from the car to the house. Not when they were already at the door. It was just an hour, anyways; nothing he couldn't handle.

 

 *

 

He couldn't handle it. John had swung the door open with a curse, and Roger was immediately set upon by a horde of people, who wanted a piece of him one way or another. People rushed up to him, pressing kisses to his cheeks and hugs about his shoulders; knocking him about in their haste to prove they cared for him. Roger fought hard to keep the panic at bay, twisting a smile onto his face that he was sure was more maniacal than anything else. Had it not been for John who bullied their way through the crowd to the couch, Roger wasn't sure what would have happened. 

"C'mon, give him the chance to sit down," John snapped more than once, practically dragging Roger over to the couch. He plopped him down with far more care than Roger was accustomed to from him, and quickly began inundating him with pillows and blankets. Once he was properly cocooned John sat himself down next to Roger as though he were guarding him. Roger allowed himself to lean against him, ever so slightly. Just to help support himself, he rationalized. 

The first person to approach him was a rather upset looking man, who twisted his fingers together anxiously as he approached. 

"Hiya, Rog," the man said shakily. "How're you feeling?"

Roger had the distinct impression that if he were to let him know that he had no idea who he was, the man would burst into tears. "Doing much better, mate, thanks! Got m'discharge from hospital, just have to go back in a few days, make sure everything's healing up proper. I'm looking to get the cast off in about three weeks, so I'll be back and drumming in no time!" 

"That's great, great to hear," the man smiled, still shakily, but less so. "I was so worried, and I know Freddie was. Had me running around ragged, he did, trying to find you the best doctors and everything. But that's nothing to say about Deacy—"

"Phoebe," John said warningly, recrossing his legs. "Let's not go telling tales out of school." 

Roger watched as the man—Phoebe—flushed, "Right, right, of course. But yes, Roger, please. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask! I know Freddie always throws a fuss, but I'm sure he won't mind a bit." 

"Cheers," Roger said, nodding gracefully. "I'll keep it in mind." 

He looked like he was about to say more, when someone called for him across the room. With another nervous smile, he hurried away, finally allowing Roger the chance to ask John who he was. 

"Peter Freestone, we call him Phoebe," John explained. "Freddie's personal assistant and glorified babysitter. We like him." 

"I can see why," Roger huffed a little laugh. "He's sweet. When did he come on?" 

"'79, I think it was?" John scrunched his face. "So not too long ago." 

Roger nodded, mulling it over in his mind. Two years might not seem that long for John, but for him, well. It was just another reminder of what he'd lost. 

"Shit, Deaks," Roger muttered, catching sight of someone out of the corner of his eye. "Tell me that's not fucking _Prenter_." 

John, too, cursed, "Unfortunately, yes."

"Four years and we still haven't managed to get rid of him?" 

"Things haven't changed that much," John huffed. "Some people come and go, but he's the one leech we can't get rid of no matter how hard we try." 

Roger eyed the man suspiciously, watching as he leaned close to Freddie, causing the other man to toss his head back and laugh. 

"I still hate him, right?" Roger clarified, hoping his answer was the same as he remembered. 

"Definitely," John laughed. 

"Good." 

"On a lighter note, there's Mack," John said with a point of his finger, drawing his attention away from Prenter and towards a tall man with a mullet, who had cornered what looked like Ratty by the kitchen. "We like him, he works for the studio where we're recording. In fact," John laughed. "He probably likes you best of all. You've been causing him the least amount of drama so far." 

At that, Roger couldn't help but scoff. "That doesn't sound like me."

"One would think," John agreed. "But no, you've been rather well behaved this album, at least until you went and put yourself in hospital." 

"What can I say, I always have to be the center of attention." 

"I think we can all agree that that's Fred, not you, mate," someone grunted as they vaulted themselves over the couch to come and plop down next to Roger. Roger startled, turning to find none other than Crystal sitting next to him, beer in hand. 

"Chris!" Roger yelped, grinning broadly. "Shit, mate, you've survived long enough to stick around?" 

"What can I say?" Crystal shrugged. "Made myself a deal with the devil and I'm still working off my punishment." 

"I believe that's my cue to leave," John grunted as he struggled to his feet. Roger couldn't help the bite of panic at the thought of him leaving, and he turned sharply, ignoring the way it made his stomach twist and turn. John noticed Roger's panic, his expression softening. "Hey, it's okay. I'm just going to get us some water and some crackers. Crystal will take good care of you, he knows everyone here, too, and won't lead you astray." 

"I make no promises," Crystal said. "I've got _years_ of petty grievances to make right. Might just introduce Mack's wife as Roger's secret lover we've all kept hidden from him for fear of a freak out." 

John paled before fury set tight on his face, "Don't you fucking dare, Chris," John spat. "If you fucking dare—" 

"Kidding, kidding. Jesus, John. What, you leave behind your sense of humor at the hospital?" Crystal nudged Roger conspiratorially as if to say _can you believe this guy?_

John, however, found little humor in the situation, "Chris, we talked about this. If you—"

"Yeah, yeah, you'll fire me; kick me out on the streets; sell me off to ABBA." 

" _Crystal_." 

"Chill, Deaks, I'm not gonna fuck with him," Crystal sighed, raising his hands in surrender. "I'll be a good boy, Mummy, don't worry." 

"I think," Roger said slowly, watching both of them hesitantly. "That I'd be able to figure out if I were having an affair with Mack's wife. Beginning with the fact that I'm pretty sure she's the very pregnant woman in the corner, and I've never been one to go for current-mothers." 

Crystal grinned sharply, "You never know, Rog. Things can change in a few years. And who's to say you're not the father?" 

"Deacy told me we'd only been here since December, and by my calculations she looks to be at least seven months," Roger continued with an eye-roll. 

Crystal toasted his bottle. "Cheers to that. Y'know, Rog, she _does_ have a soft spot for you. I'm sure if you really pushed it, she might even name the little tyke after you." Noticing that John was still standing guard over the two of them, Crystal rolled his eyes. "Calm down, Deaks, I was just fucking with you. I'm not gonna do anything to Roger. He's in good hands." 

John watched him carefully, his eyes still narrowed, before flashing to Roger. Roger nodded, trying to smile reassuringly. Crystal would take care of him, he always had; there was nothing to worry about. With a heavy sigh, John ran a hand down his face, but turned to the kitchen. 

"Give a shout if you need me, Rog," John called. 

"Well," Crystal said, "now that Mummy's gone. What do you want to know? I mean, must be hard for you, trying to get back on your feet after walking in front of a car. Which, can I just say, is up there with your stupidest decisions next to deciding that you tried to bleach your hair yourself and turned it green." 

"I did _WHAT?_ "

Crystal cackled.

 

* 

 

Within thirty minutes, Roger was definitely beginning to feel the onset of a flare up. With each new person that came up to him, his head throbbed all harder. It was like a hammer, pounding out from the base of his skull up to behind his eyes. It certainly didn't help that someone had had the bright idea to turn on the stereo. The bass line for whatever song they had chosen was only helping to pound a steady beat against his brain. He was trying everything in his power to mask it; drinking lots of water, keeping his responses at the minimum, even leaning further on Crystal's shoulder as though someone else holding him up would prevent the pain from showing. He was miserable, but he kept holding on. The last thing he wanted was for everyone, most of them unknown to him, to see him like that; weak, in pain. It wasn't his fault he couldn't handle a little party.

He was currently in the middle of a very one-sided conversation with someone's girlfriend—he had long since stopped listening and didn't even want to bother asking her to repeat her name. She was going on and on about something they had worn for their last tour and it took all his power not to snap at her that he no longer had an opinion, if he ever had. He couldn't even _fucking remember_ the damned tour, let alone what they wore. It wasn't as if he had forgotten everything except for a specific pair of white trousers, for fuck's sake. 

His annoyance must have shown on his face, for the next thing he knew, John was standing over him, trying to get his attention. 

"Hmm?" he asked, squinting up at him. 

"That's it," John sighed, not sparing the girlfriend of whoever-the-fuck a glance as he bent down to scoop him up by the armpits. "C'mon, Rog, let's go." 

"No, m'fine," Roger slurred, a token attempt at a protest. In contradiction to his words, he leaned heavily against John and allowed himself to be bodily lifted and hustled towards the hallway. 

"Party's over," grunted John as he tugged Roger past Freddie. "Everybody out." 

There was a bit of an uproar but John had him safely out of the living room before any of the noise could further hurt his head. He pulled him past the stairwell and down a back hallway towards a little room tucked away, where he used his foot to push open the door before pulling Roger through the doorway. The room was small, and blessedly dark with curtains that blocked out most of the light. The bed was a standard double with navy blue sheets and pillows that felt soft under his heavy head. Next to the bed was a table with a clock; radio; lamp; and curiously, a little bell. 

"You'll ring that if you need me," John instructed as he worked Roger's shoes off of his feet before tucking him, street clothes and all, into the bed. "Anything at all; more water, medicine, or if your head starts to hurt more. Don't think I don't know that you were trying to hide that. You really shouldn't, you need to let me know when you're in pain." 

"Wasn't tha'bad," he slurred, closing his eyes so as to avoid John's. "Was handlin' it." 

"Whether or not you were handling it, it's not okay," John stressed. "You won't heal if you keep pushing your limits, and that includes hiding your symptoms." He tucked the blankets in tighter around him. "Okay, I'm going to make sure everyone leaves, grab you some water, and then I'll be back in exactly fifteen minutes, okay?" 

"Mmmkay," Roger murmured, letting himself turn over and relax into the pillow. John ran a hand over his head before slinking out the door, making sure it didn't make a sound as it closed. 

A few minutes later, the door creaked open again. Roger turned towards the crack of light, squinting. 

"Psst, Rog!" Crystal hissed, poking his head through. "You still with me?" 

"Yeah." 

"Good." Crystal snuck into the room, crouching down next to the bed. "Listen, I want you to know. If you need anything, you want to know anything...you come to me, understand? I promise I won't lie to you. I'll tell you straight. Got it?" 

"Wha...?" 

"I mean it, Roger. I'll tell you the truth no matter what you ask me, okay?" 

"M'kay," Roger murmured, closing his eyes and leaning back into the pillow. Crystal left, closing the door and leaving the room dark again.

 

John returned, as promised, within fifteen minutes and carrying a full glass of water and a wet flannel. He dragged a velvet arm chair from the the corner of the room over to the side of Roger's bed before carefully draping the flannel over Roger's eyes, who moaned as it soothed his feverish forehead. 

"I know," John whispered as he ran a hand over his hair once more. "Just go to sleep, it'll be better when you wake." 

Roger let himself doze, all the while John sat next to his bed, watching to make sure he was okay. 

 *

The next few days were weird for Roger. John was, uncharacteristically, the definition of a mother hen. If Roger so much as winced he was there in an instant, hovering to make sure he was okay. He prepared all of his meals for him and, on one occasion when Roger was feeling particularly weak, even spoon fed him tomato soup with zero complaint. He helped Roger to the bathroom; helped him get dressed; he had even washed his hair for him. 

It's not that John was ever a bad friend, but he had never been this _caring_ before. Roger could distinctly remember, and never before had he considered the simple act of remembering a cause for self-congratulation, one time they had been goofing around with a Polaroid during soundcheck back in '76 when Roger had fallen off his drum riser and knocked the wind clear out of his chest. As he'd lay there, gasping for air and certain that he was dying, John had lifted the camera and snapped a picture as a reminder for him not to be an idiot. John had then pinned the photo to the wall of their old flat, right above the fireplace. It was John's—and, admittedly—Roger's favorite photograph. Or it had been, Roger didn’t know if John had a new favorite now.

So it was understandably weird to have _that_ John, who couldn't care less if you were bleeding so long as it wasn't on him, somehow turn into _this_ John, who knew his pill schedule by heart and had fucking _blown on his soup_ to cool it down before feeding it to him just yesterday. This John, who put ice cubes in his tea, and remembered that Roger liked a cold compress on his forehead when his head hurt. This John knew that he liked to have his hair played with as he fell asleep; he even knew which of Roger's pajamas were his favorites, right down from the softest pair to the oldest pair, and that he always wanted to wear socks when he was awake but never when he slept. It was like Roger's head injury had transferred to John and he had come out the other side _nicer_. 

He made the mistake of asking John what had happened one morning when John as cut his toast into triangles for him. _Triangles._

John froze, his knife slipping on the china. "Maybe I've gotten nice in my old age," John sniffed, returning to cutting the toast. "Or I've decided to take on a charity case, really show my new colors." 

Roger didn’t feel like a charity case, per say. He did, however feel a little like a child, and was fighting the urge to see whether John would make him eggs and soldiers if he asked nicely. 

"I mean, it's not like you pushed me in front of the car," Roger continued, reaching for his mug of tea. He paused, squinting up at him, "You didn't, did you?" 

The look he got was enough to send him backtracking, throwing his hands up in surrender with a chuckle. 

"If it bothers you that much to see how _nice_ I've gotten, I'll back off," John said as he dropped the plate in front of Roger with a clatter. "Sorry that I care about my—my _friend_." 

"Hey, no, c'mon. I didn't mean it like that," Roger whined, reaching out to grab John by the hand and tug him back towards him. "I meant it more like, I was, I mean. I guess what I'm trying to say is, that I, uh—"

"Don't hurt yourself," John snorted.

Roger took a deep breath, steadied himself, "It means a lot to me. That you're...that you're taking such good care of me. Because I know. This probably hasn't been, like, the easiest thing. And I uh. I appreciate it. And you. So yeah. Thanks." 

John paused. "Of course, Rog. I'd do anything for you. Remember—remember when Ronnie and I broke up?" 

"Shit, of course. How could I forget?" 

How could he indeed. He'd never seen John like that before, and never wanted to again. He had been an absolute mess, just a complete shake up of who he had been prior to the breakup, or even before Ronnie. The first six months after their split had been a mess of tears, alcohol, and heartbreak unlike any Roger had ever seen before. Even knowing how much he had loved Dom, he doubted his own breakup had been anywhere near as devastating. As far as they had all been concerned, John and Veronica were the Real Deal. They were the ones who had been going to get married, have kids, and live happily ever after. And then, they weren't. 

Roger had been the only one to pick John off the floor, literally and figuratively, and try to bring him back to some semblance of normal. He had spent those first six months with John, shot for shot, carrying him home from bars, holding him when he cried. He'd been his biggest cheerleader: the one who brought him too dry toast and too sweet tea when he was hungover in bed, and the one who had pushed him to go out and pick up someone new. He had moved John out of his and Veronica's shared flat and into his own, just so that John wouldn't be alone. It had been the best and worst year of his life—worst because he'd had to see John that depressed, but best because he spent it all with his best friend. 

"You took care of me," John continued. "When you didn't have to. In fact, I remember Brian telling you that you should've been tougher on me, made me sober up instead of wallowing." 

"What the fuck did Brian know. He was off with Perfect Chrissie," Roger snapped, angry to recall the harsh words that had, at the time, had him chucking Brian out of the flat and telling him not to come back. "You were—you were healing! On your own terms!"

"And with a bottle of gin," John laughed. "But you did, Roger. You helped me heal. And you've never needed me—not like that—before. So to see you like this—I guess I'm just saying I'm returning the favor. Because you're...you're my best friend." 

Roger fought valiantly to keep the smirk off his face as he picked up a piece of toast, biting into it with sharp teeth, "Awwww, Deaks, I knew one day I'd get you to admit that song was about me." 

John made a face Roger couldn't decipher. 

"Eat your toast," John instructed, turning to the stove for his own food. Roger couldn't help but notice that the back of his neck and the tops of his ears were red. He decided to be the bigger person and ignore it. There was nothing to be said anyway.

That's what friends did, after all. Pick up the pieces and help each other out in their time of need.

*

Roger went back to his first appointment out of the hospital with Dr. Müller later that week. Deacy drove him, keeping up a steady chain of soft chatter while Roger lay sprawled in the backseat, just in case. Like always, John half walked half carried him out of the car and up into her office before sitting himself outside, promising that he'd be there when he was done.

Dr. Müller grilled him about his progress, his memories, if anything had come back to him. It bothered Roger to have to say no, nothing had returned. Not for lack of trying, but more for lack of results. He had thought, for one brief moment earlier in the week, that he had remembered something from the missing period, but when he had run it past John, he was disappointed to learn that no, their trip to Cornwall wherein Brian had fallen off the tide-pools into the water was in mid-'77. In his desperation to claw back some of his missing time he was muddling the memories he did have. 

"Recovery is a marathon, not a sprint," Dr. Müller said primly, twisting her pen in her hands. "You cannot expect to be healed in one week." 

"I don't want to be healed," Roger snipped. "I just want to remember _something_." 

"Have you got a diary yet?"

Roger rolled his eyes, "No." 

"Get one. And every day write down what you've done, what dreams you've had. It might help you, it might not. But you won't know until you try. I expect, when you come back next, to find you've written at least seven entries. One whole week."

Roger made John drive him to a bookstore on their way home. He wasn’t yet cleared to be out and about amongst large crowds so John had to be the one to go in and get him a journal— _not_ a diary, thank you very much. Although his first session with the shrink had been a short one he still felt woozy and exhausted from sitting up for that long, and from forcing himself to think that hard. He dozed off while he waited, the arm of John's jacket flopped over his eyes to block them from the sun, trying to stave off the flare up he felt creeping in the back of his mind. Fortunately, John returned shortly, rushing into the car to escape the blistering cold of the Munich winter.

"Jesus, it's gotten colder," he chattered, turning the engine over and rubbing at his hands in front of the vent. "You're in luck, they had one diary left. Covered in glitter and butterflies, just as you like it."

"Wait until my head stops spinning and I'll kill you myself," Roger grunted. John fell silent in the front seat. 

"We'll be home shortly," he said, his voice softer. "I'll give you your pill and you can go straight to sleep." 

"Hallelujah," Roger cheered sarcastically. 

By the time they'd made it home, his flare up had hit with a vengeance, leaving him little more than a rubber boned mess struggling to walk, let alone talk. John carried him into the house and to his room, sticking him on the bed before removing his jacket, shoes, and jeans. Roger shivered, mewling at the pain in his head. 

"I know, I know," John whispered, tugging the blankets down from under him so he could pull them up tightly over him. "I'll be right back, I'm just getting your pill." 

Roger rolled to his right side, avoiding his still sore ribs and the road rash on the side of his face. Curling up tight, he fought the urge to get sick, focusing instead on breathing slowly, in and out. 

"I'm back," John hissed, coming back with the pill and another flannel. "C'mon, let me prop you up enough for you to take your pill, and then you can go to sleep." 

"This fuckin' sucks," Roger half sobbed, his eyes squeezed tight. "I hate this." 

"I know, baby," John said, sounding as desperately sad as Roger felt. "But let me give you your pill, okay? It's all going to be okay." 

The water was cool as he swallowed it down, and with it, his painkiller. John helped him settle back against he pillows and draped the flannel across his eyes. 

"I feel like m'dying," Roger said in a small, defeated voice. 

"You're not," John snapped. Roger flinched. "You're not dying. You're just having a flare up and when you wake up, it'll be over." 

"Don't leave," Roger begged. He was ashamed to admit that he was crying. "Don't leave me." 

There was a rustle, then the thud of shoes falling onto the floor before the other side of the bed dipped as John crawled in next to him, laying down and beginning to run his fingers through Roger's hair. 

"Never," he promised.

*

He dreamt again of the ocean. Unlike before, the sea wasn't the mess of salt and sand as before, but calmer. Sweeter, almost. He floated under the waves, letting himself be rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth....

There was a calmness to the sea. To being underneath. Nothing could reach him; nothing could hurt him. Just the sand beneath him and the sky above him. He let himself drift; the current took him further out than expected, but he wasn't afraid. He knew that he was moving towards _her_ , wherever she may be.

 

*

 

Roger woke up warm under the covers, curled around John. For the first time since Roger had woken up in the hospital and realized who it was sleeping next to his bed, John looked at _peace_. It made him look younger; the slack of his jaw, the missing furrowed brow, the steady evenness of his breath. He had kept his promise, too—he hadn't left him. Something in Roger's chest loosened; he had no idea how anxious he had been that John would have left him while he was sleeping. He shifted closer to John, reaching out his fingers until they could almost brush against the warmth of his shirt sleeve. He wanted so much to wake him up, to thank him for keeping his promise, for staying through the entire night. But he couldn't find the right words. Closing his eyes again, he willed himself back asleep. 

Roger awoke again to John mumbling. Cracking open an eye, he watched as John stretched like a kitten, reaching up to knuckle the sleep from his eyes. 

"Mornin', Rog," John grumbled around a yawn, twisting in bed so as to curl up closer to Roger, rubbing the arch of one foot against Roger's. They were practically sharing a pillow; each breath they took was mingled. "How'd you sleep?"

"Good," Roger murmured, voice quiet in the early light of day. He never wanted this to end.

"That's good," John nodded, eyes still closed as he breathed deep and easy, his foot warm against Roger's bare skin. Roger watched, unable to look away. 

"You kept your promise," he said. "You didn't leave." 

John stiffened. Roger recoiled. 

"I always keep my promises," John replied, gruff. He rolled off of the pillow, off of the bed, and sat on the edge, dipping his head to look at his feet. "I'll make breakfast." 

"Wait," Roger called, trying to scoot closer to him. John turned—in the hazy light of a winter's morning, his features were hidden, eyes darkened and cheeks shaded. Roger couldn't make out the expression, but he could see in the tense line of John's shoulders that he wanted to leave. Roger bit his tongue, falling back onto his pillow. "Can...can you help me? I, uh, need t'piss." 

The hard line of John's shoulder's stayed, but he didn't outwardly reject Roger. 

"Of course." 

John came around to Roger's side, gently helping him sit up and holding his wrists so he could balance while he dangled his legs. There was so much Roger wanted to say, but the words felt trapped in his throat and wouldn't come out. _Thank you for staying_. _Thank you for caring for me_. _I don't know how I would've survived all this if it weren't for you_.

"Steady?" John asked once they had Roger upright. Roger nodded dumbly. 

They worked together: slow steps made easy by John's steady hands and gentle grasp. He walked Roger all the way to the bathroom, helping him ease himself onto the toilet. John kneeled down and grabbed for the waistband of Roger's pants. Roger, not expecting it, flinched. Rocking back on his heels, John looked up at him with wide eyes. 

"I—" John stammered. "Sorry, sorry, I just—"

"No, no," Roger hurried to calm the situation with a joke. "At least buy me dinner first, Deaks." 

John flushed scarlet and avoided his eyes. "I'll get a start on breakfast," he said as he scurried to his feet, practically tripping over himself in his rush to leave. "Call me if you need me." 

The door slammed shut behind him. Roger fell back against the tank of the toilet with a groan. Two steps forwards, six steps back. 

By the time he'd finished, Roger would have rather crawled on his hands and knees back to bed than call for John himself. He managed to ease himself—and his pants—up so as to lean against the sink. The tile was cold under his hands, and if he had had better balance he would have bent over and rested his head against it, too. Instead, he took the time to slowly brush his teeth, using the toothbrush and toothpaste that Deacy had left out for him yesterday before his appointment with Dr. Müller. He counted out two minutes in his head, just as he remembered from his short-lived stint in dentistry school. When finished, he rinsed out his mouth and decided he needed to do something to tame his bed head. He opened the left side drawer, grabbed his comb, and started working through the worst of the knots in his hair. 

It was easy at first, especially at the front, but by the time he moved to the back of his head, each run through of the plastic teeth felt like he was yanking at his own brain. His scalp was still tender and raw, the fracture itself delicate and sensitive to even the lightest tugs of the tangles. With a curse, Roger threw the comb into the sink with an echoing clatter. 

"Roger?" John called. His feet fell heavy as he rushed towards the bathroom door, quickly knocking on the door. "Are you alright?"

"M'fine," Roger snapped, gripping the edge of the sink all the more harder. 

"What happened?" 

"I said I'm fine!" 

"Did you fall? Are you alright?" John sounded panicked, and Roger could hear him turn the knob. "I'm coming in!" 

"Jesus," Roger snarled, wishing he had the balance and motor control to turn quickly to face him as he barged in. Instead, he chose to glare at him through the mirror. "I said I was fuckin' fine!" 

John frowned, looking around the bathroom as though to find the source of Roger's ire. "What happened?" 

"I told you, _nothing!_ "

"It didn't sound like nothing! And what are you doing up? You shouldn't be standing unless someone is here watching you! Why didn't you call for me?" 

"I'm not a child, I can fucking stand if I want to!" Roger finally gave into temptation and turned, wobbling slightly. John made to catch him, but Roger threw up his hand, "Don't!" 

"Roger," John warned, stopping just an arms length away. "C'mon." 

"No!" Roger yelled, fury burning hot in his chest. "No, because this fucking _sucks!_ I can't even fucking take a piss without someone demanding to watch! I can't walk without someone holding my hand like I'm a goddamn toddler, and—and—I can't even brush my fucking hair!" 

John crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, "Anything else?" 

Roger felt the sudden urge to chuck something at John's smug face. He reached for the comb in the sink and chucked it at John, watching in satisfaction as he ducked to avoid a face-full of plastic. It landed somewhere behind him, hitting the floor with a satisfying clatter. "Fuck you!" 

"Ask nicely," John shot back. 

"Fuck you, and fuck the doctors, and fuck this fucking concussion!" Roger yelled. "Fuck this stupid fucking cast! And fuck that car, and...and..." The fight went out of him just as quickly as it came. Roger felt as though his strings had been cut as he collapsed against the edge of the sink. "Fuck this," he scoffed wetly, pretending to pinch at the bridge of his nose, but really trying to prevent any tears from falling. 

"Fuck this indeed," John sighed, coming over to rescue him from the sink. "C'mon, I know what will make you feel better."

"Vodka?"

"Fat chance. How about some porridge? I added golden syrup, just the way you like it." 

Roger's stomach growled, and he glared down at it, ignoring John's smug little face. 

"Don't think this is me giving in," he huffed as he allowed himself to be pulled from the bathroom towards his kitchen. 

"Of course not," John simpered. "Look, I'm even going to let you sit in the kitchen, because you've been _such_ a good boy." 

"I'm gonna strangle you with my own bare hands." 

"Tell you what, buddy, you sit there and I'll just crouch in front of you so you can reach," John grunted, hoisting Roger up and slinging him into one of the kitchen chairs. Before Roger could even think of a proper response, John moved away towards the stove and began ladling porridge into bowls. Roger watched as John poured extra golden syrup into one of the bowls bowl, placing it before him with a cheeky grin. Warmth flared up in his chest as he picked up the spoon, deliberately ducking his head so John couldn't see the pink flush rising on his cheeks. 

They ate in carefully measured silence, but Roger didn't find that he minded. It was simply enough to be sitting next to John, eating breakfast, and looking forward to the rest of the day.

*

Later that night, once they'd finished dinner, John had helped Roger to the couch in the living room. Once again, John mummified him in blankets and pillows before he scurried over to the radio, switching it to an English talk show. It wasn't the world's best, but for Roger—who was still banned from watching television and virtually unable to read—it was much better than nothing. 

"Okay, Rog, remember," John pressed, shoving the little bell into his hand. "Ring this if you need me—your head hurts, you need to pee, _anything_. I'll just be upstairs, okay?"

"Got it," Roger grinned, relaxing back into his cocoon of blankets. 

"I'm serious," John called as he made his way towards the stairs. "Don't stand up at all—just ring the bell." 

Roger flashed a thumbs up. There was a brief moment of hesitation, but John finally made his way up the stairs, watching Roger until he had to turn the corner and was gone. Relaxing now that John wasn't there to watch his every move, Roger let himself sprawl out on the couch, listening as the two hosts debated the merits of whatever newest sitcom they had been watching. He let the aimless chatter lull over him as he dozed in and out of sleep, enjoying a full belly and warm blankets. 

However, he was soon startled awake by the sound of John's voice, raised and angry, filtering down the stairs. For a moment, Roger thought that John was calling for him, and was about to shout back up to him, when the talk show faded out into a soft ballad, and John's conversation echoed down clearer. 

_"—the fuck do they even know, Freddie? For all we know, not telling him will cause even more damage than telling him!"_

Roger's ears perked up; he hadn't heard John sound that pissed in forever. Struggling to sit up, he strained to hear more. 

_"—it's not your fucking decision! It's mine, and if I choose to—oh, fuck you, Brian, it's not like that and you know it!"_

That caused Roger to really sit up. If both Freddie and Brian were on the phone with John, then that meant it was a band meeting, one that he wasn't a part of. Roger side-eyed the phone on the other side of the room. Maybe if he were really quiet, and extra careful, he'd be able to walk over to listen in. He was just about to slide off the couch when John's cursing got all the more louder. 

_"—I'm the one who has to live with knowing that, okay? Not you, not Brian, but_ me. _And if you honestly think that I would ever abuse his trust like that then you both can go fuck yourselves."_ Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by the sound of the door slamming, followed shortly by what sounded like something heavy being thrown across the room. 

Roger waited to hear anything else, but either John had hung up or the bedroom door upstairs was extraordinarily thick, blocking any further sounds from escaping. He waited though, just in case; he wanted the chance to hear more, or at least be there if Deacy needed some emotional support. When it became clear that whatever was going on was going to take much longer, Roger decided to take things into his own hands. He was growing actually tired, and wanted to be able to go to bed. However, before he did, he needed to complete his assignment from Dr. Müller. The only problem was his head was beginning to spin, and the thought of writing made him all the more dizzy.

The little bell John had given him was actually much louder than Roger'd expected, as he discovered when he rang for John. He'd barely put the damn thing back down before John came barreling down the stairs.

"Roger?" John panted, skipping the last two steps and coming skidding to a stop before him, eyes wild. "Are you alright? Is your head hurting?"

Roger blinked, "Mate, I'm pretty sure that was a record sprint. I've never seen you move that fast." 

John scowled, "Did you just call me down here just to fuck with me? I told you, only ring that if you _need_ me! I thought you were hurt, or having another flare up or—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold your horses, Deaks! I do need you!" Roger whined. "Dr. Müller said that I have to start writing in my journal—"

"Diary," John corrected with a single cocked brow, insufferably smug. 

"Fuck you," Roger said cheerfully. " _Anyways_ , she says I need to start writing things down. But my head's still kinda spinning? So could you do me a favor and help me?" 

Roger watched in fascination as John's expression melted. Plopping onto the other side of the couch, John settled in nicely before reaching out for the journal. It was sparkly and covered in butterflies, as promised, because John was nothing if not a massive dick. 

"Alright," John said. "What do you need me to do?"

"I'm supposed to write down any dreams I might have had, and what I did today," Roger explained. "It's supposed to help me with my memory." 

John nodded as he cracked the spine of the journal. "Okay, that's easy: 'woke up; had a temper tantrum in the bathroom; didn't thank John for making breakfast'—"

"Ugh," Roger groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Why did I ask you? I knew you'd be an ass." 

"Because you have no one else but me," John shrugged. "Now, tell me about your dream." 

Roger spent the next twenty minutes narrating his day to John, beginning with his dream about the ocean, and the figure he was swimming towards. Then, step by step, they broke down what he'd done all day, beginning with his melt down in the bathroom and ending with a dinner of salmon with lemon and rice. 

"And then," Roger crowed, "You broke the sound barrier running down the stairs once I rang for you. And now you're writing in my journal for me." 

" _Forced John away from very important business upstairs, made him do my homework for him, teased him mercilessly,_ " John said slowly as he scribbled it all down, grinning toothily. "All done!" 

"Perfect," Roger smirked. "Now, take me to bed, Deaks, I'm knackered." 

With a roll of his eyes, John stood with a stretch before reaching for Roger, helping him to his feet. Roger watched in morbid fascination as John tucked the journal into the back of his pants, freeing both hands so he could escort Roger back into his bedroom. They were halfway across the living room when Roger paused, his attention caught by a painting on the wall. 

It was a simple landscape, probably something picked up in a secondhand shop and held no significant value. The artist had done a fair job in depicting the small town; rolling hills, robin's egg blue sky, and tiny little row house surrounding a steepled church. It was picturesque and ideal, but for some reason, it was _wrong_. There was no explanation, other than it just looked like it didn't belong there. There was something off about it, something that made the back of Roger's neck itch. He frowned, staring at the painting as he tried to figure out why he was so upset to see it there. 

"Rog? You okay?" 

"Yeah," Roger said, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears. He shook his head, turning back to face John. "Yeah, yeah, sorry, guess I just lost focus there for a minute." 

"Is your head hurting?"

"No, no," Roger shrugged. "Just spacing out, that's all. Now, c'mon, fido, take me to bed." 

As John led him back down the hall, Roger couldn't help but stare at the painting until it was completely out of his sight.

*

Roger's days all passed the same, and they easily fell into a routine. After sleeping as long as possible, he would wake and ring the bell, letting John know he was wide awake and ready to face the day. John would spend every waking hour with Roger, either chatting quietly, or, when Roger was feeling restless, he'd pull up the armchair and read to him. Whether it was the newspaper or a horrible science fiction novel, John would maintain the same quiet and gentle tone, stopping only when Roger dozed off or when his head began to hurt. On the occasion that he did have a flare up, John would be quick to fetch his pill and a flannel, sitting by his side until the pain passed. 

Roger didn't know what he would do without John. He was the first person he saw when he woke and the last before he went to bed. John made him all his meals, carried him to the toilet, even washed his hair for him. Without John, Roger would have either fallen and refracted his skull, or died from sheer boredom. Or, in all honesty, been smothered in his sleep by whatever other poor soul was forced to care for him.

Slowly, but surely, Roger could feel himself beginning to get better. He spent less time dangling his legs before he stood; was able to actually take small, measured steps on his own; and had graduated from bed rest to being allowed to choose where he wanted to sit for the entire day, albeit in the living room or the bedroom. The road rash on his face and legs slowly scabbed over, fading to scars in certain parts. His ribs were still tender, but not the radiating ache they had been for the past two weeks. His head was still his biggest source of pain, but progress is progress. 

However, while his injuries were beginning to heal, his mind had yet to return to him. He was following Dr. Müller's instructions and wrote in his journal every day. Some days, the entries were short and curt due to a flare up. On those days, it was John who would have to write for him, as he was too dizzy to read the pages let alone write. Others, the entries sprawled over multiple pages, full of Roger's thoughts and dreams, snippets of things that could be a memory, could be a dream. The majority of his dreams, now, revolved around Dominique, as awkward as that was for Roger. 

She was his ex-girlfriend, someone he hadn't been with in almost three years, and yet, for Roger, their relationship was something that ended merely two weeks ago. It didn't surprise him to have her leak into his subconscious while he slept, but that didn't make it any easier for him to be missing someone who was no longer there. On the days when he dreamt of her, he would wake up with a bitter taste in his mouth, unconsciously stretching his hands out to grasp the empty side of his bed. To make matters worse, there was no one he could talk to about her, other than Dr. Müller. He couldn't just roll up to Freddie and be like, _hey mate, how's it going? I'm great except for the fact that I keep dreaming about my ex-girlfriend and waking up almost in tears. Fancy a coffee?_

Roger kept it all in his journal, meticulously writing down each and every detail, praying that one day he would wake up and all of his memories would return, just like that. That he'd open his eyes, look around, and finally know what he was missing. 

*

_Roger pressed Dom further down into the mattress, tangling one hand in her hair and pulling back her head to suck wine dark bruises against the pale, sweet expanse of her neck._

_"Fuck yes," she murmured, her voice thick and gravelly with desire. "Rog, please—"_

_"What do you want," Roger asked, sucking all the more harder before pulling away again. "Tell me what you want."_

_"Want you."_

_"I know, babe, I know. But how?"_

_Dom groaned, bucking her hips up to press tantalizing up against his. Roger fought hard not to give into temptation and rut until his release._

_"Wanna suck you," she moaned. It took every bit of strength he had not to explode right there._

_"Fuck yeah, yeah, babe."_

_Roger allowed her to flip them over, watching with feverish eyes as she wiggled her way down his body, pressing her own sucking kisses into the slight pudge of his belly._

_"You're gonna kill me," Roger groaned, throwing his head back and dropping his arms over his eyes. Dom laughed into his hipbone, biting hard enough to make Roger's breath hitch and his hips buck. Dom held his hips down with strong hands._

_"Babe, please," Roger begged. "Dom—"_

_"Be a good boy for me," Dom teased as she yanked down his boxers. Roger barely had time to moan before she sucked him down the root, forcing a groan from his throat. Desperate for something, anything to ground him, he twisted his fingers into her hair and held on for dear life._

_Distantly, he knew he was babbling nonsensically moaning her name, cursing, writhing under her touch, her mouth, _her_. He was just on the edge, just about to let go, when he looked down. Pleasure punched through his gut as he stared at John, his John, smirking around the stretch of Roger's cock in his mouth. _

_John lifted his brow and sucked all the harder, pulling Roger's orgasm from what felt like the very depths of his soul as he shouted._

_"JOHN!"_

Roger bolt right up in his bed drenched in a cold sweat, his boxers a sticky mess. Running a shaky hand across his eyes he scrubbed at his face, struggling to make sense of everything he dreamt. John. Fuck, it was John in his dream, not Dom. What the fuck. With a pained grunt, he flopped back against his pillow, ignoring the twinge of pain that was rushing through his head. Curling his hands into his hair, he groaned, long and hard, before rolling over onto his side and reaching for the journal. 

Flipping on the bedside lamp, he opened the book, and began to write.


	2. you will never love me again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me about your dreams,” Dr. Müller said, leaning forward in her chair. Roger fingered the edges of his journal, running his thumb over the corners of the pages just to watch them fan out.
> 
> “Not much to tell.” 
> 
> “I don’t believe that,” she pushed. 
> 
> “They’re just dreams. Sometimes I dream I’m—I dream I’m underwater,” Roger sighed. “Other times, I’m with…” Dr. Müller waited patiently for him to finish, her gaze steady. “I dream about Dominique.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was brought to you in part by wine, lo, and the 1979 classic album _tusk_ by fleetwood mac. please enjoy responsibly

“Tell me about your dreams,” Dr. Müller said, leaning forward in her chair. Roger fingered the edges of his journal, running his thumb over the corners of the pages just to watch them fan out.

“Not much to tell.” 

“I don’t believe that,” she pushed. 

“They’re just dreams. Sometimes I dream I’m—I dream I’m underwater,” Roger sighed. “Other times, I’m with…” Dr. Müller waited patiently for him to finish, her gaze steady. “I dream about Dominique.” 

“Your ex-girlfriend?” 

Roger rolled his eyes, “Why are you asking a question you already know the answer to?” 

“Things can change in a week.” 

“Nothing that major.” 

“Have you spoken to her since your accident?” 

“No,” Roger traced one of the butterflies on the cover with his finger. “Freddie called her, apparently, just after I woke up. Just to let her know I was okay.” 

“Why haven’t you spoken to her?” 

Roger scoffed, “And say what? To her, I was that guy she dated two years ago. For me? It was a month ago. I wouldn’t even know what to say.” 

Dr. Müller hummed thoughtfully, “In these dreams—the ones you have of her—what are you doing?” 

Roger shrugged and picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. Chewing his lip, he looked up quickly before looking back down, “Stupid stuff. Sometimes it’s us doing domestic shit; cooking, hanging out together, things like that. Other times it’s uh, more, uh private.” 

“I see.” 

“Exactly! So I can’t like, call her up and start asking her what our sex life was like back in the last year before we ended everything.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t say be that bold,” Dr. Müller laughed. “But maybe start small. You mentioned last week that you’d dreamt about the two of you going to the zoo. Ask her if that’s something that you did. It could be a memory, or it could just be a dream. You won’t know unless you ask.”

*

Roger stumbled out of her office, struggling to feed his cast through the sleeve of his jacket. John, who, like always, had been waiting for him in the too-stiff armchair in the waiting room, leapt to his feet to help him. Roger allowed himself to be zipped up like a child, focusing instead on shoving a knitted cap onto his head. 

“How was today’s session?” John asked as he grabbed his arm to help him down the stairs. 

“Fine,” Roger said tiredly. “We just talked about the journal and my lack of memories.” 

“Well, what about the journal?” John pressed, ignoring the bit about his memories. He led him towards the car, opening the front seat door for him, “Anything good?” 

“She says I need to call Dominique,” Roger sighed as he slid in. John, instead of slamming the door shut like he usually did, bent over to look at Roger incredulously. 

“What? Why?” 

“Because a few of my dreams have been rather domestic and she thinks that they might be memories from our relationship masking themselves as dreams through my subconscious.” John stared at Roger, jaw dropped, still standing with the door open. Roger shivered, frowning up at him, “Look, can you get in the car and we can finish this conversation with the heat on? I’m freezing my bits off.” 

John scrambled to do as he was told, scurrying around the car to the drivers side. He waited until the engine was turned on before he twisted in his seat to face Roger. With a deep breath, he asked, “And she’s sure that you speaking to Dominique will potentially make this right? Why don’t you just ask me, and I’ll tell you if that’s something that you two did?” 

“Because I don’t think you were there when we were potentially having kitchen sex,” Roger snapped, hunkering down in his seat. “Or when she blew me in my car in—”

“Okay, okay, fuck, fine, I get it,” John yelped, moving to cover his ears. “Jesus, Rog, c’mon! I don’t want to hear that!” 

“You asked,” Roger said not unlike a petulant child. “Can we go home now? I’m cold, and I’m tired and frankly, I just want to go to bed and forget this whole day.” 

John eyed him from the corner of his eye, but did as he was asked; turning the car on and pulling out of the spot. Roger slumped down in his seat, pulled the brim of his hat down low, and closed his eyes.

*

Later that night John was uncharacteristically chatty, prattling on aimlessly about this, that, and everything. Roger, who had no interest in learning about the differences between the prices of English mustard and German, grit his teeth in frustration, choosing instead to ignore rather than provoke. He let John ramble away all throughout dinner and the subsequent clean up, but he drew the line when John followed him into the bathroom to continue talking while he brushed his teeth. 

“Okay, what is it?” Roger finally snapped after spitting out a mouthful foam with much prejudice. John, who had moved onto his annoyance with driving on the right side of the road, paused with a confused look.

“What’s what? Driving on the left side of the road?” John asked stupidly. He blinked slowly at Roger, his expression caught between confusion and worry. “Roger, we drive on the _left_ side of the road in England. Do—do you not remember this?” 

Looking towards the ceiling as though it would manage to give him the patience he needed to continue the conversation, Roger fought the almost overwhelming urge to throw his toothbrush at the bassist. 

“Of course I remember that,” he said slowly, finally looking back at John once his annoyance had depleted. “What I mean is, what’s got you all worked up? You’re ranting.” 

“I am not.”

“Are too. You just spent two hours talking nonstop. About _mustard_.” 

“I did not!” 

Roger pinned John with a look. John had the decency to flush as he looked away, staring down at his hands. He sighed deeply, before looking back at Roger, “Alright, fine. I’m just...I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Roger teased, ignoring John’s glare.

Once John realized that Roger wasn’t going to say anything more, he reached up to run a hand through his curls—which, if Roger was going to be honest, he couldn’t help but admire. John’s haircut did more than just age him, it framed his face in such a way that Roger hadn’t imagined before. He was more mature, and, dare he say it, more _handsome_. John had always been good looking, it was impossible not to notice. Half the girls lining up outside their shows weren’t there for Roger, as sore as he was to admit it. John was, as one girl had once sighed lovingly over at an after party, ethereal. He looked like something out of a Raphaelite painting, all soft angles and dark looks. Roger would have been blind not to realize that John was beautiful, and had only grown more so in the passing years. 

Realizing that he had spent too long staring at John’s hair, and not enough time paying attention to what he was saying, Roger shook himself out of his thoughts in time to catch John’s words; “I don’t think you calling Dominique is the best idea. I think it opens you up to getting your heart broken again.” 

He’d figured that was what had been bothering John; nothing else—bar a rude driver who had cut them off on their way home—had occurred that would have set John off like that. After two years, maybe even more, of living with John, Roger was well versed in his ticks. When John didn’t want to talk about something, he would spend hours rambling on about anything else. Once, when Roger had pushed to learn more about why he and Veronica had broken up, John had spent four hours describing in _painful_ detail the inner workings of an Apple I. Roger had actually dozed off where he sat, waking only to discover that John had escaped for Freddie and Mary’s apartment, returning only once Roger had promised not to bring it up again. 

“Okay,” Roger said carefully, maneuvering himself to sit on the edge of the bathtub with little assistance from a still blushing John. “That is a valid thought.” He couldn’t lie, there was a bit of him that was proud of his ability to hold his tongue and not snap back at John the way he really wanted to. “However, I think that Dr. Müller is right, and I should at least attempt to find out what’s real and what isn’t.” 

“But I don’t understand why you have to call her,” John protested, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. “Why can’t you just—why can’t you ask me? Or Freddie? Or even Brian?” 

“I already told you,” snapped Roger. “Because not _that_ much has changed between now and '77 to make me have told you all about all the different times Dominique and I had sex, or hell, even just discussing the way she used to fold laundry. The things I remember, they’re not vacations, or presents, or—or anything else of the like! They’re small, domestic things. Things that we honestly wouldn’t have discussed. And I need to know if they’re memories or if they’re just wishful thinking.” 

“Yes, but—”

“Why are you trying to stop me from remembering?” 

His voice was loud in the small bathroom, echoing off the tile and reverberating more so than he had planned. There was a flash of satisfaction at seeing the stunned, horrified look on John’s face; at seeing him put in his place. Because that’s what he was doing. By discouraging him from speaking with Dominique, he was discouraging him from actively working on remembering. 

“Roger,” John breathed, eyes wide and hurt, “Rog, I’m not. That’s not my intention. Trust me, no one wants you to remember more than me—”

“Well, it sure as fuck doesn’t seem like it! Jesus, I’m here trying so hard to do _everything_ in my power to remember, and you’re fighting me on what might be the best solution!” Anger roared in his ears as he glared up at John, frustrated beyond belief that he wasn’t supporting him. After all Roger had been through—after all _John_ had been through, caring for Roger— he would have imagined that John would have leapt at the idea of Roger being able to finally do something about his missing years. Instead, John was telling him it was a bad idea and that he shouldn’t even try. 

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” John retorted with a roll of his eyes. “I’m merely saying that maybe calling Dominique will cause more harm than good. You don’t know what it was like, after—”

It would have been kinder if John had smacked Roger in the face, and they both knew it. John cut himself off, stiffening the moment the words left his mouth, but the damage was done. Roger turned away, unable to even look at him. 

“You’re right,” he said softly, but firmly. “I don’t remember. I have no idea what it was like when we broke up. I have no idea _why_ we broke up. I don’t know anything, John. But I know that this is my chance to find out, and whether or not you support me, I’m going to call her.” 

“I’ll always support you, I just—”

“Fine,” Roger interrupted, done with the entire day. “Then there’s nothing left to say. I’m going to bed.” 

“Roger—”

“Goodnight, John,” Roger stood carefully, shrugging off John’s attempt to assist him. “I don’t need your help,” he snarled, shuffling away. “I can do this on my own.” 

Ignoring the wounded look on John’s face, Roger slowly but steadily made his way out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, firmly closing the door behind him. Leaving John standing alone outside. 

 

*

 

The next morning, for the first time since he was brought home, Roger didn’t ring the bell when he awoke. Instead, he laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and replayed the entire fight over and over in his mind. He was in unfamiliar territory of which he was well acquainted with. But unlike before he had no idea why they had fought like they did. Usually, when they argued, Roger knew who was in the right or the wrong based solely off the entire situation as a whole. It wasn’t unheard of him to slink into their shared kitchen the morning after a row, tail between his legs and admit he was wrong. But this time, John was right, as much as he loathed to admit it. 

Not that he was right in what he said, or how he said it, but in that he had no idea what it was like when he and Dominique split; he didn’t know if _he_ was the cause of it or she, if either had cheated, or if they just grew distant due to work and travel and the overall pain of being involved with someone who was always going to put his music career before their relationship. For all he knew, when he and Dom had ended things, he’d spiraled like John had with Veronica. Or he could have done what Freddie had done when he’d called things off with Mary, and just spent his nights hopping from bed to bed. Or worse, maybe he’d done what Brian did, and stayed in a dead relationship while trying to find love and comfort in another woman’s arms. 

Either way, he didn’t know what he did. He didn’t know how he’d behaved. All he knew was that somehow, in between four years and an accident, Roger-and-Dominique broke apart, leaving Roger alone. As far as he knew, there was no one else between their end and his waking up in hospital. The holes in his memory grew larger as Roger prodded at them, rather like a bruise he couldn’t let heal or a freshly lost tooth. The more he poked and prodded and aggravated, the worse they healed, and the further they stood to remind him that he was still broken.

In the kitchen, faintly, Roger could hear John rustling, moving about as he started to prepare breakfast. Or, at second glance towards the clock, lunch. All it would take would be for Roger to ring the bell, to give in and let John know that he was awake, but that felt too much like giving in. 

Roger was hurt. It hurt to hear that John doubted him, to hear John throw his memories, or lack thereof, back in his face. Out of everyone, Roger had thought that John would understand best of all. But he was wrong. 

He rolled over in bed, pulling the covers up higher and tucking them under his chin. He wanted to yell at John. He wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted to remember. He wanted so much and yet nothing at all.

With a sigh, Roger nestled back into the pillows and willed himself back to sleep.

 

*

He could never stop dreaming of the ocean. He was underwater, again, sunken beneath the waves, desperately trying to make it to the figure in the horizon, the one who beckoned him closer, whose hair swirled dark and tangled in the water. No matter how fast he swam or how hard he tried, they were always just out of reach, just too far for him to find them. 

He was always alone. 

 

*

 

There was a knock at the door, quiet in the reverbance of his dream. Roger awoke with a gasp and a start, rolling over to look towards the door. Roger knew that there was really only one person who could be on the other side. For the briefest of moments, he considered ignoring John and going back to sleep. But the thought of returning John’s olive branch with a cold shoulder made something inside him pang with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. 

He cleared his throat, rubbed at his eye, and grunted, “Yeah?” 

“Roger?” John called, his voice muffled. “It’s past noon. I, uh, I made lunch. Are you hungry?” 

As if on queue, his stomach growled. Running his hand down his face, he nodded once to himself before shouting back that he was, indeed, hungry. Opposite the door, John was quiet. Rolling himself over, Roger pushed himself into a sitting position and let his legs dangle, as was now customary. 

With a deep breath, he offered his own olive branch; “What’d you end up making?” 

“I didn’t,” John huffed, finally opening the door just enough to fit his head through the crack. He seemed small in the din of the room, his face weary as though Roger would leap from the bed and crack him round the head with his lamp. “We still had leftover tetrazzini; I just reheated it.” 

“I’ll never say no to pasta,” Roger yawned as he stretched. “I’ll come out in a bit, m’kay? Just wanna get changed.” 

“Oh, um, of course. I’ll—I’ll just be in the kitchen.” 

It was slow going without John there to assist him, but eventually Roger was able to change out of his pajamas and into jeans. After a quick trip to the bathroom—which, had you told Roger merely two weeks ago he'd be able to do it alone, he'd have laughed in your face—Roger managed to shuffle-slide his way into the kitchen where John was waiting. 

"You got dressed all on your own," John said, the corners of his eyes crinkled by the strength of his smile. "Look at you!" 

"Even brushed my teeth and pissed," Roger added proudly, letting John pull out his chair for him. "But I'm not gonna lie t'you, I'm ready to eat and then head back to bed. Can't believe how much that took out of me." 

"That's perfectly fine," John said as he turned back to spoon out the leftover casserole. "Once you're done eating, I'll help you back." 

"Thanks," Roger smiled. "For both lunch and for always being there." 

John settled himself down next to Roger, his expression soft. "Of course, Roger. And, um, I want to apologize for yesterday." 

"You don't have to—"

"No, please let me finish." 

Roger fell silent, watching him open his mouth, close it, and open it again on a heavy sigh.

"You were right," John finally admitted. "I—I was so worried about your past and the way you used to feel that I completely disregarded your _current_ feelings. It was wrong of me to suggest not calling Dominique, and I'm sorry. I took advantage of the fact that I have four years of knowledge and memory that you don't, and I was an arse. I took the liberty of getting her number from Freddie, and if you'd like, I can give it to you. I want you to get your memories back, and if Dr. Müller says that this is the best option, then I won't stand in your way." 

"Really?" Roger was almost gobsmacked. "I mean, shit, Deaks, thank you. That's...that means a lot." 

Suddenly, and without warning, Roger found himself on the opposite end of some rather intense eye contact. It felt almost as though John was trying to stare directly into his soul; his mouth went suddenly dry. As horribly cheesy and pathetic is seemed, Roger couldn't help but feel like he was getting lost in the grey-green expanse of John's eyes. 

"I mean it," John said, his voice strong and firm. "No one wants you to regain your memories more than me. Except you. And, if that means you call Dominique? Then I will _personally_ dial the number for you." 

Roger flushed red so fast he felt dizzy. The prolonged eye contact continued for at least ten more seconds before John broke it off in favor of his tetrazzini. 

"Also," John added while he swirled his pasta around his fork with a grace that forced Roger to watch his hands, flushing all the darker. "Freddie and Brian were talking about coming for dinner. Fred mentioned it again this morning, think you feel up to having them over?" 

Roger had to cough twice before he was able to find his voice, "Yeah, erm, that should be fine. It's been a while since I've seen them, anyways. Wouldn't hurt to have them over." 

John hummed in agreement, tucking back into his lunch, completely unaware of the effect he'd had on Roger. After a brief moment, he glanced back up at Roger, quirking his brow, "Eat up, you don't want your meal to grow cold."

*

Roger took a deep breath, staring down the phone. After lunch, he'd spent a few hours in his room, preparing just what he wanted to say to Dominique, prepping what he wanted to ask her about. He had poured over his journal, scoured the pages for the most pressing questions and memories, things that he needed to be validated, or memories that he doubted. There was so much he wanted to know, but he knew that he was limited in asking. If he pushed too hard for her to tell him about those two years they spent together, he could risk a build up of false memories. Or, if the relationship ended on a horrible note, he could end up hurting her in the process. There was a fine line between curiosity, validation, and pushing someone beyond their limits; especially someone who he no longer knew. 

It took him a bit to build up the courage to even approach the phone; had stared at it carefully from across the living room for at least forty-five minutes while listening to the radio before John, with a heavy sigh, stood up from his seat. 

"I'm going to go upstairs for about an hour or two," he said pointedly. "Maybe listen to some music, watch some tv. But if you need me, I'll be upstairs." 

"You're not subtle," Roger grumbled, running a hand down his face. John rolled his eyes as he strolled towards the staircase, tossing the folded up piece of paper with Dominique's number on it at his face. 

"And you're not normally this nervous," he countered over his shoulder as he ascended the stairs. "Treat it like a plaster and just rip it off. I'll be in our room." 

Roger stuck his tongue out at his back, but did as he said. John was right, he was being a chicken shit, and the longer he put it off the more his anxiety would build up until he wouldn't even be able to call. With a groan, he pulled himself up off the couch and went—blanket, journal and all—over to the armchair John has specifically placed next to the side table where the phone was. He took five minutes to situate himself, and then another five just to psyche himself up. 

When he had nothing else to use an excuse to procrastinate the inevitable, he took a deep breath, said a small prayer to whomever might be listening, and dialed her number. 

With sweaty palms, he listened to the dial tone, a teeny part of himself wishing that she wouldn't pick up, that she wasn't home. He was just about to hang up when the ringing cut off, then—

_“Hello?”_

Immediately, all words in the English language left Roger’s brain, and he had a visceral urge to slam down the phone. Logic overrode panic, however, and he managed to stammer out a rather strangled; “Dominique?” 

There was a pause on the other line, and again, Roger had to fight himself not to chuck the phone across the room and run. 

_“Yes, this is she.”_

“Shit, um, hi, hello, Dom,” Roger stammered, clutching the receiver tightly with both hands. “It’s, erm, it’s Roger. Roger Taylor.” 

_“Roger! Darling, how are you? Freddie told me everything that happened, I was so worried! Are you doing better?”_ Her voice was just as he had remembered it, husky in that femme fatale way. Roger hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it, missed the way his name sounded in her mouth; sweet and warm. 

“Yeah, erm, much better. Able to stand by myself—even managed to take a shower on my own now, and everything,” The moment the words left his mouth, he wished he could pluck them out of the air and shove them back down his throat. Dropping his head to his hands, he fantasized about slamming his head down onto the table and ending his miserable life. 

_“Cher, that’s wonderful! All on your own, how grand. I know how hard it can be to recover from a head injury, to hear that you’re healing so well—and so quickly—just absolutely made my day!”_

"Yeah, erm, me too," Roger stammered. "Really, uh, really getting along. Hoping to get cleared for crowds soon." 

_"I'm sure you will!"_

Roger stared at the journal, wishing that the words he'd need would come flowing from his mouth, but, like always, he was lost when it came to speaking with Dominique. The first time they'd met, she'd made the mistake of giving him her phone number, and he'd made up all sorts of excuses just to speak with her, from asking what time Queen was scheduled to go on to if there would be craft services available. After the twelfth unnecessary phone call, she'd snapped at him for wasting her time. In his panic, he'd somehow managed to apologize and convince her to let him take her out. 

Now he wasn't looking for a date though, he was looking for memories. It would have been easier if he were just looking for a date, that was familiar ground. 

"Listen, Dom," he said cautiously. "There's a reason for my call. Not that it's not wonderful speaking to you—because it is! I just, um, I just have some questions? About us. I mean, our relationship. Shit, I mean, our old—from when we were, um, dating. Questions about 1977 to '78." 

He dropped his head into his hands and thanked god that Freddie wasn't here to see him fail so hard. 

Dominique, ever a lady, ignored his sputtering, _"I figured you might be calling about that! Yes, of course, cher, any questions you have I'll answer."_

"I have to warn you, there are some that are—well, I understand if you don't want to answer them." 

_"No, no, I'll answer anything. I want to be as much of a help as possible."_

Roger closed his eyes and relaxed, slumping back against the back of the chair. reaching for his journal, he flipped to one of the pages he'd dog-eared. 

"Okay, erm, alright. Here goes. So, this is incredibly random, but did you used to fold your sheets into your pillow case? Like, all the sheets wrapped up and then stored into a pillow case?"

*

 

It turned out that some of the dreams could be memories, but they were vague enough to be things he'd learned in the beginning of their relationship, in '77, and not necessarily in '78. Some things he was right about—Dom did have a very strict regimen when it came to laundry, and they did have an affinity for kitchen sex. She didn't recall them visiting the little Greek restaurant he was picturing, but she knew that they had gone through a very adventurous restaurant period, resulting in the both of them eating fried octopus and broiled spleen, so it was possible. It was also possible that she had once made him pancakes with lemon and sugar for them to eat out in the garden. There was also a little day trip that he'd remembered, which had Dominique humming thoughtfully and promising to check in her own diary to see if they did, in fact, take a drive into the countryside. 

The problem was that his memories were not only four years old, but that they were vague. As he'd explained to John, they weren't memories of long trips or romantic gestures, but something as simple as being woken up to a kiss and a cup of tea, or of turning to watch the sunset filter over her silhouette on the drive home while _Crimson and Clover_ crooned softly on the radio. Things that might have meant something once in a relationship, but with the passing of time faded away. 

Roger found himself surprised at how differently he felt. He had been genuinely worried—as he knew John was—that speaking with Dominique would bring up feelings or even fresh wounds. That he would come away from the phone call more heartbroken or even missing what was never there. Instead, he found himself thinking of her fondly, like he would Clare or even Freddie or Brian. While he felt _something_ , it definitely wasn't love. At least, not romantic. No, it seems as though in the past four years, whatever lust or affection he'd felt for her had faded into the sort of affection one can have for someone who's not only seen you naked but also met your mother.

“You know,” Roger said carefully, once they'd finished discussing his entire list of questionable dreams. “I thought...when I first woke up, I thought it was 1977.” 

Dominique was quiet on the other line, and for a brief moment, Roger was afraid she had hung up on him. However, she sighed, just the once, _“Freddie told me. Said that you were confused, that you had woken up calling for me.”_

“Yeah, yeah, that's, erm, right. I was so confused, the nurses were speaking in German, and I was convinced I had had an accident—that I had hit my head while skiing. Remember that trip we took? Late ‘77, skiing in the Alps?” Roger asked, holding his breath. _Please don’t let me be wrong. Don’t let me be the only one who remembers._

 _“Skiing? Did we—oh! We did! We went with erm, that couple! Your old mate from school, who was it?”_ she cried, her voice bright and rich with laughter. Roger felt as though his heart would explode with joy—she remembered!

“Tim,” Roger said, breathless. “Tim and his girlfriend at the time, I think her name was Maddison or Margaret or—”

_“—Madeleine, yes! She was a right proper cow, to boot! God, I had almost completely forgotten all about that trip.”_

“I thought I had hit my head, I could remember going with you down the black diamond, remember?” 

_“How could I forget? I remember watching you go careening into a snow bank, it took me and those two Swedes twenty minutes to fish you out, you were covered in snow.”_

He felt dizzy with relief. Yes, he remembered that, remembered how humiliated he had been at first, but as it took longer and longer to pull him from the bank, he had found it more and more comical, until he could barely breathe he was laughing so hard. All the while, the two men from Sweden cursed and shouted as they dug him lose while Dom alternated between chastising him and laughing with him. When he was finally free, they had continued down the slope with much more caution, returning to the chalet for much needed hot cocoa and a soak in the hot tub. 

They had spent hours in that hot tub, soaking in the jets and enjoying the heat against the bitter cold. It had taken some persuasion, but eventually, Roger had convinced her to shed her swimsuit, and they had rutted and kissed in the water until they had shriveled like prunes and grown dizzy from the heat. It was only when Roger had made to run for bottles of water did they realize that the door had locked behind them, leaving them trapped outside among the snow in nothing but their swimsuits and a jacuzzi for warmth. 

Roger laughed, remembering their panic, and the fury on her face once they’d realized what had happened. She’d stayed in the water, hunkered down so that only her nose and eyes were visible over the water line while Roger, shivering and freezing, had made to break the window. 

He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, “I thought you were going to kill me for getting us locked out in the jacuzzi. I was halfway to breaking a window and crawling through when you remembered the key hidden in the eaves.” 

On the other line, Dom fell silent, before, _“Roger...there was no jacuzzi at the chalet. That—that wasn’t with me. We didn’t have a hot tub.”_

Panic hit him in the chest as he stuttered, “No, we did, remember? We spent half the time there, and I told you for our anniversary I’d buy us one.” 

_“No, cher, that wasn’t with me. You must have confused me with someone else—”_

“Of course,” Roger lied, biting back the urge to scream and wail and curse, but most of all, to cry. “You’re right, that was—it was someone else. Another girlfriend. I think that was ‘74? Yes, it must have been.” 

_“Roger—”_

“Can’t believe I got those trips mixed up,” he continued with a fake laugh. He had been so sure, absolutely positive that that had been real, that they had been locked out while the snow fell around them, flakes falling into the steaming tub. Roger had stood, jumping up and down to try at get the warmth back into his bones while Dom yelled at him from the water, her annoyance outweighing the humor of the situation. He’d almost broken the window, had a chunk of ice in hand and raised when she’d shouted out for him to stop, that the emergency key was tucked away in an eave. Once they’d gotten the door open, Dom had pulled him back towards the shower, shivering and chilled, promising a warm shower and a blow job for being so ready and willing to climb through a window for her. 

He could remember it so clearly, the feel of her touch, so hot it almost burned against his freezing arms. The pull of her mouth on his cock, the tangle of her hair between his fingers. The heady promise in her kiss when she unraveled from her knees, the water falling around them as he let her press him up against the tile. The way they slept that night, curled around each other so tight he couldn’t tell her limbs from his. It felt so real—it felt so right. And yet. 

Distantly, he could hear her still talking, saying something he couldn’t bother to pay attention to. The rest of their conversation passed with one sided stories and Roger’s disingenuous hums and platitudes every now and then. It wasn’t much longer until she begged off, saying something about errands to runs and friends to see, and that they’d talk about soon, catch up once more on old times. 

_“You can call me anytime, cher,”_ she informed him, her voice so gentle it hurt. _“Don’t ever hesitate to call, even if it’s just to speak.”_

“Of course, Dom. I will.” 

_“Good.”_ She hesitated, just a breath, before adding, hastily, _“Give John my love, won’t you? And tell him...tell him that I’m always available for him to call as well.”_

“I’ll make sure he knows, Dom. You take care, alright?” Roger hung up the moment she bid him farewell, slamming the receiver down with too much force and too little care. Upstairs, he could hear John’s door opening, and the promised weight of his steps on the staircase. 

The absolute last thing he wanted was to see the pity on John’s face, or worse, hear him say that he knew speaking to Dom would bring him nothing but sadness. As fast as his concussion would allow, Roger scurried back to his room, fighting back the horribly humiliating urge to burst into tears. 

It was all a lie. Very little of what he’d dreamed—if any—were actual memories. Rather, they could be just that; dreams. All hope that he’d had, all the fantasies of him being right, that his memories were slowly but surely coming back, were dashed to bits. Not even bothering to close the door or even shed his jeans, Roger crawled under the covers of his bed, and pulled them flush over his head. 

“Roger?” John called, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe. “How did the call go?”

“Fuck off,” Roger bit out, struggling to hold back the influx of tears. 

“Oh, Roger.” John’s voice was too soft and quiet, the way one would talk to a small child whose ice cream had fallen to the floor or who had scraped their knee. Roger hated it. 

“Go away,” he demanded, petulant and hurt, voice muffled by the duvet. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

It was quiet, for the briefest moment, Roger thought John had left. But then— “That bad?” 

“Fuck off.” 

“What’d she say?” 

Roger threw back the duvet to glare at John. He could only imagine how he looked; face red and blotchy, eyes wet, chin quivering. He hated it. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he spat, trying hard to keep his voice steady. “Leave me alone.” 

John’s face fell, sympathetic in the light from the hallway, “Roger, it’s okay.” 

“It’s not!” Roger exploded, devastated to feel tears roll down his cheeks. “It’s not, because I was wrong, and they’re just dreams and, and, I’ll _never_ remember. I’ll never get those years back, and I hate it! I hate it so much, I hate everything!”

Rushing across the room, John hurried to his side, moving to sit next to him on the bed. Furious at his pity, Roger rolled over, turning his back to him. It didn’t stop John from laying one hand, warm and big, against his shoulder. 

“Roger, c’mon, that’s not true. Your memories will come back; so they were just dreams. That doesn’t mean that you have to give up all hope!” 

“I was wrong,” Roger repeated. “I was wrong, and as if that’s not bad enough, I…” 

In the chasm of silence between them, Roger hesitated. He wanted to confess everything. He wanted to tell John that as much as he dreamt about Dominique, he also dreamt of John. That he wanted so much that he could not give, and yet—

And yet. 

“Rog?”

If he said it now, if he told him now, everything would be ruined. And so he swallowed down his words and his fear and his dreams and lied. “I just wanted to be getting better,” he whispered into the pillow, heavy in the dark. “I wanted to remember.” 

He repeated it again, to himself, and to John; a prayer spoken into the dark. 

 

*

 

Freddie and Brian came over for dinner the next night, bringing a bottle of wine he could not drink and conversation with which he could not participate. Roger had barely seen them since his return from the hospital; from his understanding, they had been tying up loose-ends within the studio and managing the media while he recovered. While he didn’t expect them to be at his beck and call every day of the week, a small part of Roger had to admit that it hurt to realize that while he had been cooped up in bed recovering, they hadn’t been there. Granted, four years was a long time, but the distance the two of them were creating seemed much more impossible. There was so much he didn’t know—so much he didn’t understand—far beyond missing memories and a broken head. There was a new dynamic within the band, and either no one was bothering to explain to him the difference, or they hadn’t even noticed the change themselves. Roger didn’t know which one was worse. 

He sat there, at the dinner table, watching as John and Brian and Freddie discussed things he didn’t remember, and referenced people he no longer knew. They mentioned jokes he was now on the outside of, and songs that he couldn’t recall a beat for. Roger was, for all intents and purposes, eating dinner with three men he knew so well and yet were now strangers to him. 

“More chicken, Rog?” Freddie asked, finally turning to look at him after ten minutes of regaling the other two with adventures Roger could not remember. 

“No, thanks,” Roger said, unconsciously short. His stomach felt too small and uneasy to eat more. Freddie accepted his answer with a nod before offering the platter to John, who dished more onto his plate without a care. Watching as John took a swig of his Heineken, Roger had never felt more envious in his life. 

He had been cut off of all alcohol and nicotine, as both would have adverse effects on his concussion. The withdrawal alone from nicotine had seen Roger almost drooling at the faint whiff of cigarette smoke on Freddie’s jacket when he had hugged him hello. Roger would have given his left arm for a ciggie and a beer just to get him through the dinner. 

Appetite gone, Roger chose to instead shove the remaining veg around on his plate, mashing the roasted carrots into a paste with his fork. It was only when conversation fell silent did he look up, just in time to catch Freddie and Brian making eyes at each other across the table. 

Whatever it was they were trying to say, it caused Freddie to pull a face. Brian rolled his eyes before clearing his throat; “So, John, we, erm, we’ve been thinking.” 

John hummed, cutting his chicken into pieces, “About?” 

“Well,” Brian continued. “It’s been two weeks since Roger’s come home from the hospital.” 

Lowering his knife and fork, John narrowed his eyes at Brian. Roger knew that nothing good was going to come from this conversation, and he shifted uneasily in his chair. John patted his mouth clean with his napkin; Roger knew it was only to buy him more time to calm himself down before he said something he would regret. 

“Yes,” John said slowly, measuring each letter out carefully. “It has.” 

Brian looked helplessly towards Freddie, who, upon realizing John was on the brink of anger, had chosen instead to stare blankly out the window, “We, erm, have been talking, and we think it’s time for you to come back. To the studio.” 

John looked as though he were taking the time to think over what Brian said before he picked up his cutlery again and continued eating. “No,” he said shortly. 

Despite it being the answer Roger had expected from John, it clearly was not the case for Brian, who retaliated by throwing his napkin onto his plate in anger. “Oh, come off it, John,” Brian snapped. “You can’t expect to hole up here with Roger and ignore the album. Afterall, look at him, he’s sitting up on his own!” 

Roger opened his mouth to argue, but John beat him to the point, “Roger might be sitting up, but he is not _healed_ , Brian. It’s too soon for him to be left on his own—he’s only just started walking by himself, and even then it’s only to-and-from the toilet to the door. It’s not safe to leave him alone.” 

“Oh, bullshit,” Freddie sighed with a roll of his eyes. “Roger is a big boy, and if he promises to stay in bed and not move—”

“Fred, have you ever met Roger?” Brian scoffed. Noticing Roger’s scowl, Brian hastened to add, “No offense, Rog.” 

“What happens if he has to take a piss?” John demanded. “What if he falls? Or gets hungry? Then what?” 

“Leave a jar by his bed and a packet of crisps on the nightstand,” Freddie suggested as he bit into a green bean. 

“That’s not funny,” John frowned. “He's not a fucking cat, Freddie! Look, I get it, but I’m sorry. I can’t leave him alone.” 

“We’re already down a drummer, we can’t be down a bassist too,” Freddie huffed as he slammed a hand down on the table. The plates rattled, and Roger grabbed for his water glass before it toppled over. 

“Besides,” said Brian with a face that spelled trouble. “Isn’t this album supposed to be focusing on your new vision?” 

Next to him, Roger could feel John tense, and he knew that if he didn’t act fast, there would be yet another member of Queen out of commission. Ignoring the dig about a new vision he knew nothing about, Roger cleared his throat. 

“Do I have any say in this at all?” Roger interjected. “Considering it’s me you’re all fighting over?” All three turned to look at him, as though they had forgotten he was even there. “I agree with John—”

Rather like a child, Brian scoffed and threw his hands in the air in the mockery of a tantrum. “Of course you do, Roger, no surprise there.” 

“What the hell does that even mean, Brian,” Roger snarled suddenly furious. “You’re damn right I agree with John, considering _I’m_ the one with the fucking skull fracture. I’m not comfortable being left alone, alright?” 

He was vaguely satisfied to see Brian look properly cowled. Freddie, however, decided to throw his own suggestion into the ring; “Alright, fine. You don’t want to be alone. We can work with that. We’ll get you a babysitter—”

“Hey!” 

“—and Deacy can come back to work. There,” Freddie grinned with a clap of his hands. “Problem solved.” 

“No,” John said. “Problem not solved. Who are we going to get to watch him? If we’re all working in the studio, who’s going to be here?” 

“I’m sure we can think of someone. It shouldn’t be too hard to find someone willing to just hang out at home and feed him,” Freddie brushed him off with a flutter of his hand. “You’re not that much of a terror, Rog.” 

“You’d be surprised,” John muttered with a grimace.

*

That night, after both Brian and Freddie were ushered out the door, John helped Roger into bed, his arm a comforting pressure on his bicep. Roger accepted his help with a half smile, crawling under the covers and watching as John repositioned the little bell and a glass of water on the bedside table. 

“What do you think?” Roger asked carefully, when it became clear that neither wanted to discuss the issue at hand, but had nothing else to say. “Are you ready to go back to the studio?” 

“No,” John said bluntly. “I’m not. I think it’s stupid, for me to go back when you’re still needing someone to be there twenty-four-seven. What would happen if you fell and hit your head again? Or if you had a flare up and whoever is watching you doesn’t know where your pills are. Or—”

“Deaks,” Roger interrupted, recognizing John working himself up into a tizzy. “C’mon. As if you would allow me to be left with someone so incompetent. If I have a flare up, I can tell them that the pills are upstairs in your bathroom cabinet, and the clean flannels in the linen closet next to the sheets. And I won’t fall, because I’m only going to be getting out of bed if someone’s there to watch me. It’s going to be okay. Plus, you heard Freddie and Brian, they’ve agreed to letting you come in for half days and leaving at two. Knowing me, I’ll probably sleep through ‘til lunch and be just waking up when you walk in.” 

John looked away, humming thoughtfully, tapping a beat out on his thigh. “You’re right,” John sighed. “I just...I worry about you. The thought of you falling, or getting hurt—”

“I get it. I worry about that, too. But we have a job to do, and, well, if one half of the sonic volcano is out on bed rest,” Roger teased with a sly grin. “Then I’ll be needing the other half to pick up my slack.” 

“Well in that case,” John chuckled as he rolled his eyes. He bent over to smooth the blankets over his legs, and Roger had the sudden desire to see what would happen if he were to run his fingers through the soft curls at the nape of John’s neck. His hand was just beginning to twitch towards it when he snapped out of it, flushing in embarrassment. Roger cleared his throat, looking away.

“I’m always so tired,” he yawned, stretching theatrically. “Can’t wait to get my energy back.” 

With a nod, John stepped away from the bed. “I’ll let you get some sleep. Call for me when you wake, alright?” 

“I want a real fry up,” Roger grinned. “Mushrooms and everything.” 

“You’ll get what you’ll get and you’ll like it no matter what,” he replied. “Now, get some sleep.” 

“G’night, John.” 

“Goodnight, Roger.”

*

_He was underwater again, alone in the murky brine. He let the water wash him clean, let it rock him back and forth as the current was carried him, driftless. He floated under the waves, letting himself get swept out to sea._

__

__

_Swept out to her._

_She was always there; his tide always brought him back to her, adrift but for her shore. She was his anchor, the only thing keeping him tethered against the pull. As he drifted closer, closer, closer still, she reached out, their fingers tangling among the whitecaps._

_He grasped at her hands, holding on for all his worth as the ocean tilted, shifted, and changed. He was in the kitchen, the light soft through the gauzy curtains. There was a song playing on the radio, gentle and quiet in the still of twilight._

_“You’ll never get them clean if you wash them like that,” John chastised from behind Roger, pulling his hands from the soapy sink, cradling them in his own. “The water’s not warm enough.”_

_He was right; Roger was cold, so cold. It sunk into the very marrow of his bones, and he fought the urge to shiver._

_“It’s warm enough,” Roger lied, looking up through his lashes at John. John smiled, soft, blurry around the edges as though he were half erased._

_“Your hands are cold,” John murmured, pulling him in so that their bodies pressed together. The warmth of his skin burned against Roger’s, heating him from the inside out. John cupped his hands, bringing Roger’s up to his mouth to blow the soap suds from his knuckles. “Can’t have you risk damaging them.”_

_With hungry eyes, Roger watched as John pressed a kiss to the back of each hand before he pulled Roger in impossibly closer. “Let me warm you,” John whispered against Roger’s lips. “Let me—”_

 

Roger woke, the dream still sticky in his brain and the want heavy on his tongue. Pulling the covers up higher to tuck under his chin, Roger shivered. The room had long since grown cold; he longed for warmth, for comfort. He reached out—for what, or who, he didn’t know— but found the other side of the bed empty. Shivering harder, he curled back into himself, tugged the blankets up higher, and fought his way back to sleep.

*

Two days later, John’s presence was formally requested in the studio, by orders of Freddie. There was much back and forth, and demands for more time, but eventually, John was outnumbered and was forced to cave. And so, Roger found himself perched on the couch in the living room, watching as John layed down the law to Crystal, who had been unanimously elected into being Roger’s companion. 

“First, don't leave him alone. Make sure you have an eye on him at almost all times. He is not allowed to stand on his own, no matter what. Second, if he rings his bell, you go to him." 

"But if I'm not allowed to leave him alone, why would he need to ring his bell?" Crystal asked dryly, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. John looked horribly unimpressed. 

"Maybe you went to get him water, maybe you went to answer the phone, I don't know. But if you hear his bell ring, you go to him." 

Crystal turned towards Roger, frowning deeply, "I'm not doing that. You ring that bell for me like I'm your fucking dog and I'll break the bell off in your ass." 

John inhaled sharply, and Roger could tell he was on the verge of throwing Crystal out of their house and holding up until Roger could walk again. So Roger reached over, grabbed the bell, and rang it directly in Crystal's face. 

"Fetch me a water, Fido," he teased.

Crystal snatched the bell out of his hand and sat on it before returning to his chips. "Strike one," he grunted. "Two more and I break your other hand, see how well you can drum then." 

_"Crystal."_

"Oh, relax, Deaks," Crystal sighed with a roll of his eyes. "Just tell me the rest of the rules so you can go back to the studio." 

It looked as though it physically pained him to continue, but John was nothing if not stubborn. 

“Absolutely no alcohol or smokes,” John commanded, ticking the rules off one by one on his fingers. “No television, he still hasn’t been cleared by the doctor. Same with crowds; he is not to leave this apartment unless there is an emergency. An emergency is the house is on fire, he’s fallen and hit his head, or the sky itself has fallen and death is iminent. Emergencies are not you having a craving for a take away, or Roger wants to go on an adventure.” 

“Got it,” Crystal drawled. Even from the couch, Roger could see the eye roll. John, diplomatically, chose to ignore it, despite looking as though he had eaten a lemon. Roger could tell he was listing reasons why it would be horrible if he murdered Crystal in his head, and was almost impressed by his restraint. 

With a deep breath, John sighed, crossed his arms, and continued, “He'll need help to go to the bathroom—"

"I'm not touching your dick, Taylor." 

"You'd be honored," Roger blew him a kiss. 

John cleared his throat loudly, "If you're quite done. Crystal, you just have to walk him to the bathroom and walk him back. If he has a flare up, you are to follow these steps _exactly_. First, get him to his bed. He doesn’t like to wear socks when he sleeps, make sure you remove them. Then, go upstairs into our medicine cabinet, that’s where I keep his pills. They’re the ones with his name on it. Give him one, and a glass of water—preferably ice water, but if there is none, cold tap water will be fine. Then, go to the linen closet and bring him a flannel soaked in cold water. Bring those to him, and then _you call me right away_. I don't care what Freddie says, if he has a flare up, I'm coming back. Do you understand?” 

“Flare up, give him drugs, get him wet, call you, no socks, yada yada yada,” Crystal yawned. 

“And if he’s sleeping, you let him sleep. Do not wake him up. He needs as much rest as he can get. Finally, and most importantly, you are never to leave him alone. He is not to walk on his own, not allowed to sit up on his own, _nothing_. If he falls, I don’t care if he hits his head or not, you call me and then you take him to A&E right away, understand?” 

Crystal didn’t even bother with a response, instead choosing to look over at Roger, ignoring John. John, who, in a fit of annoyance, snapped his fingers in his face. “I asked you a question, Taylor.” 

“Yes,” Crystal huffed, “I understood. If baby boy falls, we call you and then go to the doctors. Any other arbitrary rules?” 

Roger raised his eyes to the ceiling as he groaned. Unsurprisingly, John’s expression darkened as he thundered, “This is no laughing matter, Chris. If Roger falls and hits his head, he _will_ die.” 

The blunt factuality of John’s voice made Roger wince, and he felt himself unable to look towards them. He knew it, of course. From the moment they first allowed him to stand in the hospital, everyone had warned him of the dangers of a second hit to a fresh skull fracture. If the fall didn’t kill him, it would leave him permanently brain damaged, more so than just a few memories. Dr. Mitchell in particular had gone into graphic detail regarding the after-effects of second hand brain injuries. So in depth, that Roger found himself on more than one occasion waking up clutching at his head, terrified that he’d fallen and was lying dormant in a hospital bed. 

“I know, John. Trust me, Rog’s in capable hands. If I could keep him alive during the American leg of ANATO, I can manage him when he’s bedridden and crippled,” Crystal sighed as though it physically pained him. To be fair to Crystal, that first tour definitely did pain him, as it did Roger. One day all the coke and liquor they had consumed would come to haunt them either in the form of a new liver or new nose; Roger was still waiting to see which one. “In fact, I recall him trying to jump from his hotel balcony into the pool seven stories below—or was it eight, Rog?” 

“Neither,” Roger piped up cheerfully. “I was on the tenth.” 

“You fucking liar,” Crystal snapped with very little anger and more admiration, “It was the seventh and you know it! And if it weren’t for me grabbing you by the back of your shirt, we’d’ve been scrapping you off the pavement with a shovel.” 

“So dramatic,” Roger mocked. “I still maintain that I could have made it.” 

“Chris—”

“Bullshit,” Crystal scoffed. “There is absolutely no way you could have! In fact, I’m positive you couldn’t have, and if you hadn’t gotten into a fight with a car and lost—” John let in a sharp inhale, but Crystal ignored him in favor of bulldozing through his rant. “—I’d make you put your fucking money where your mouth is and prove it.” 

Roger had just opened his mouth to snap back when John cut them both off by clearing his throat loudly and forcefully. Both Taylors turned to look at him expectantly. 

“If you’re quite done,” John said forcefully. When neither spoke, he nodded just once before continuing. “Now, I will be back here by three. I will call to check in at eleven-thirty, just to make sure everything’s alright.” 

Roger grinned brightly, “We’ll be fine, Deaks, don’t worry! You go back to the studio, have fun, and in no time at all you’ll be back freeing me from Crystal.” 

Crystal chose to ignore his comment, choosing instead to slump further down on the couch, wiggling his feet under Roger’s thigh and stealing half his blanket. “Christ, Rog, this is the last time I’m ever going to wake up this early for you.” 

“It’s nine o’clock. If you weren’t here, you’d be at the studio,” Roger supplied unhelpfully, trying to wrangle back more of his blanket. 

Crystal cracked open one eye lid, glaring at him, “Are you paying me to be here? Am I earning a caregiver’s salary? Or is this being done out of the goodness of my heart?” 

“Technically, you’re still under Queen’s employment,” Roger sniffed. “I could change that for you, if you’d rather.” 

“I like to see you last one day without me caring for your ass,” Crystal gwaffed. “I doubt you’d even make it that far.” 

“I managed just fine without you—seven whole years!” 

“And _yet_ , here we are.”

Roger made to retort when he realized that John was still there, standing just off to the side of the couch. There was an expression on his face that Roger couldn’t quite place, looking as though he wanted to say something. 

“Deaks?” 

John startled, shaking him out of his revery. Running a hand down his face, he forced a smile that seemed almost painful to Roger. “Sorry,” he said. “Got lost in m’head.” 

He didn’t move. Something deep within Roger ached to stand and wrap John in a hug, to pull him in close and stroke the broad expanse of his back until all the stress and worry melted from his shoulders. He wanted to tug him into his bedroom and tuck him under a pile of blankets, keep him wrapped and warm. 

“It’ll be fine,” Crystal said gently. “I’ve got the list of rules, and Roger here won’t be causing too much trouble. Believe me, if he pisses me off, I’ll be calling you first to come back and take him off my hands.” 

John, however, still didn’t move, and stayed where he was, just looking at Roger as though looking for his permission to go. For the briefest of moments, Roger considered tell him not to go, to stay with him, kick Crystal off the couch, and curl up next to him. But they had an album to finish and a job to do. Roger couldn’t ask John to sabotage the album, not when he himself wasn’t even able to participate. They needed everyone they could get—John had to be there. 

With a heavy heart, Roger forced his own smile on his face, “It’ll be two before you know it. And, I bet you’ll be so excited to have me out of your hair you won’t even want to leave when the time comes.” 

Both Crystal and John snorted. 

“That’s if I don’t end up strangling Brian with his own guitar strings,” John half teased. He hesitated once more, but after an encouraging nod from Roger, turned towards the door. “I’ll be seeing you, Rog.” 

Roger watched John leave, biting down onto his lip to stop himself from shouting out for him to come back. It wasn’t until he heard the car start up and pull from the driveway did he turn away from the door. Crystal, mercifully, was ignoring him in favor of yesterday’s newspaper spread out over his lap. 

“So,” Roger said carefully, picking at the blanket awkwardly. “What do you want to do?” 

“Nope,” Crystal said as he turned the page. “Not yet.” 

“What?” 

“We’re gonna give it fifteen more minutes and then we’ll figure that out.” 

“What? Figure what out?” 

Crystal rolled his eyes, flicking the paper closed, “Must I explain everything? We have to make sure John’s actually gone. So sit there and be silent for once in your life.” 

He did as he was told—not because he felt any sort of need to be told what to do, but rather because he was interested to see what Crystal had planned. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. Once the fifteen minutes had passed, Crystal crawled off the couch, jumping to his feet and holding out his hands for Roger to do the same. 

“C’mon,” he demanded, yanking Roger to his feet. “Grab your shoes, we’re going outside.” 

“What?” Roger repeated stupidly. “Why? It’s freezing out there!” 

Ignoring him completely, Crystal fetched his and Roger’s shoes and coat, returning only to bully him into wearing both. Carefully, more so than his tone or even actions would have implied, Crystal bullied Roger outside into the garden, settling him down onto a lawn chair. Roger had no sooner sat down than Crystal hurried back into the house, tossing a firm, “Stay there!” over his shoulder. 

Roger did as he was told; although that had more to do with his inability to walk. It was his first time in the back garden, seeing as no one had wanted to bring him out into the middle of German winter. While it hadn’t snowed in the past days, the garden still was browned and crystalized with a heavy weight of frost, of which was promised to melt off by the time the sun had properly risen. The garden was small, the plants generic, but there was something homey about the little patch of grass and plants. A firepit in the corner promised late nights curled before the fire with mugs of hot cocoa, matched with a clay pot that, from a distance, looked to be filled with ashes and butts of cigarettes. 

While Roger was forced to quit cold turkey, he knew for a fact that John had not. There had been a few times that John had come to fetch Roger, smelling deliciously of smoke and nicotine. It made sense, then, for John’s secret smoking place to be in the back garden, wherein he could still see in or hear the little bell, but far enough away that Roger wouldn’t be teased by his inability to smoke. 

“Good boy,” Crystal snarked as he trotted back towards him, the thick blanket from his bed in his hands. “Look at you, finally following direction.” 

“Suck my dick,” Roger retorted almost cheerfully. 

“I don’t think D—” Crystal blanched, cutting himself off. Roger raised an eyebrow carefully.

“Y’alright there, Chris?” he asked. 

Crystal scowled, the tips of his ears burning red, “Made myself sick by the very thought of it. Didn’t want to lose my breakfast all over your blanket.” Whatever Roger could have commented was cut off by the blanket being unceremoniously chucked over his lap, the corner of the duvet smacking him in the face.

“Didn’t you just hear Deacy tell you to be careful with me?” Roger sputtered. 

"Boo fucking hoo," Crystal mocked as he flopped down onto the chair next to Roger. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a lighter and his packet of Marlboro Reds. 

"You can't smoke in front of me!" Roger yelped. "I can't smoke, you fucking dick! You don't even smoke Reds, you son of a bitch!" 

Once again, Crystal ignored Roger in favor of doing what he wanted. Lighting the ciggie between his lips, he locked eyes with Roger while deliberately inhaling deeply. Roger felt almost betrayed; he could only imagine this was how Caesar felt when he saw Brutus approach with the knife. He was about to start throwing insults and whatever he could get his hands on when Crystal blew the smoke—delicious and prohibited—into his face. On reflex, Roger inhaled sharply. His eyes practically rolled back as he moaned, breathing in the contraband. 

"Holy shit," he groaned, breathing in again. "I fucking needed that." 

"I know," Crystal grunted from around the butt. "Whoever thought letting the man with a concussion quit _cold turkey_ was a fucking asshole." 

"I've missed this," Roger moaned as Crystal blew more smoke in his face. "Jesus Christ, don't stop." 

"Sorry, bud, enjoy it while it lasts," Crystal huffed another breath towards him. "You're only gonna get one until your tolerance builds back up." 

Roger couldn't even complain; one was better than nothing. He sat back in his chair and relaxed, letting the blue tinged smoke wash over him while he close his eyes, tilting his face up towards the murky sunlight.

"I'm gonna tell Miami you deserve a raise," Roger sighed, inhaling sharply once more. Crystal grinned wicked and continued to smoke until there was nothing but ash left.

 

*

 

As loathe as he was to see John go, Roger couldn't help but look forward to the days where John was expected to be in the studio. Unlike anyone else, Crystal was the only one who treated him like a person and not just an invalid. He'd bring along albums from all the bands he'd forgotten and together they'd spend the day stretched out on the floor or the bed, listening and critiquing the music that Roger got to experience for the first time again. And unlike Freddie or Brian, who'd been present a few times when Roger was relearning the music, Crystal would never tell Roger what he used to think, or even his own opinion. He'd simply play the record and lean back, allowing Roger to formulate his own thoughts. 

" _Tusk_ ," Crystal announced as he changed the record. "Fleetwood Mac, 1979." 

Roger laid on his back, stared up at the ceiling and let Christine McVie croon. The spent the whole album like that, just enjoying the music and the moment until, with a final note, Stevie Nicks finished her declaration of how she'd never forget tonight. The record player scratched its way into silence—permeating and heavy in the wake of the album. 

"Thoughts?" Crystal asked, rolling over onto his stomach to stare at Roger, who still hadn't moved. 

Roger didn't even know what to think, didn't know how to process the words he'd felt hearing the six of them bare their souls to the world. But it was the final song that held onto him, that tugged at his heart strings. _Come on baby, could you ever be just a little close to me..._. 

"Roger?" 

He cleared his throat, shook his head. "Well," he grunted, gruff. "It wasn't _Rumours_ but damnit. We need to hire Stevie, see if she'll come teach Brian a thing or two about lyrics." 

"You're just saying that because you think she's sexy."

"Of course," Roger laughed. "Who doesn't? And shit, Mick's got some great floor toms. Who do I have to kill to get me a pair of those? And you call yourself my drum technician." 

"Apparently, they got some university marching band in California to support the drums, gives it that heavy sound." 

Roger struggled to sit up, indignant. "A university marching band? I haven't got one—I want to speak to Miami! That is unacceptable, I want a whole drum-line!"

*

Three days later, John arrived home with Brian in tow. Roger knew that tensions had grown ever higher between the two; on more than one occasion John had come home seething and ranting over something Brian had said or done. Roger'd made the mistake of asking Crystal just what the hell was going on and had received a pinched face. 

"I hate the fact that you can't drink," Crystal sighed. "This calls for at _least_ three shots of whisky before I even get started." 

What proceeded to follow was the messiest, most complicated, and, frankly, _ridiculous_ bullshit Roger had ever heard. Crystal unloaded two years of drama, angst, and bickering. Brian's ego, while always big, had apparently unraveled into an overarching terror that had John's own ego unleashing itself in what was quickly becoming a battle of who could scream the loudest or have the most on their side. When he'd finished, Roger had wished for his own drink.

"Alright," he said slowly. "Where do I fit in in all of this?" 

Crystal shook his head, "Before your accident? You were more focused on having Mack teach you as many curse words in German as you could learn and terrorizing Prenter. You basically just—you were trying to keep the peace. A go between. So now without you there—"

"Everything's going to shit," Roger finished for him. "Jesus, who'd've thought it would come to _me_ being the voice of reason." 

"Right? That's what I've been saying." 

So to see Brian following behind John, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his jacket, left Roger mildly surprised. 

"Hullo, Brian," Roger smiled, casting a curious glance over at John. "I didn't know you were coming over!"

"Hey, Rog," Brian greeted him with a hug made slightly awkward by his too tall stature bending to Roger on the couch. "How's the head?"

"Doin' much better. Crystal and I have been catching up on some records—spent the day listening to the new Cheap Trick album."

"Oh, _All Shook Up_? What do you think?" Brian asked, flopping down next to him on the couch.

Furrowing his brow, Roger turned to Crystal, "No, it was _Dream Police_? Think it came out in '79?" 

"Yeah, no, _All Shook Up_ just came out, like, a year ago?" Brian corrected. Noticing both Crystal and John's glowers, and the crestfallen look on Roger's face, Brian hastened to soothe the sting of being wrong. "But yeah, of course, no that's a good one. You liked it, when it came out." 

"What has the world come to—Brian knows more about the music scene than I do?" Roger attempted to joke. It fell flat. In the remaining awkwardness, Roger couldn't help but notice Crystal slinking closer to the door while John looked anywhere but at Brian. "So, um, what brings you 'round? Not that I'm not excited to see you." 

"Oh, right," Brian shifted, pulling a stack of papers from the inside of his jacket, handing them over to Roger with a wide smile. "Just got these in the mail. Chrissie told Jimmy about your accident, and he wanted to draw you something. Louisa, erm, _participated_. Chrissie really did most of the work, to be quite honest, but Jimmy really wanted you to have something from him. German mail, though, not as good as Royal Mail, eh?" 

Roger blinked. Jimmy? Louisa? He knew Brian and Chrissie had married—hell, he'd been in the wedding party, for Christ's sake! But Jimmy, Louisa, that'd mean that— 

"Are you a fucking _dad_?" Roger yelped with little tact. Brian recoiled in shock, while John finally stepped forward.

"Roger—"

"When did you become a father? Why did no one tell me?" Roger continued, more bewildered than angry. "You! A dad?" 

Brian and John exchanged a sharp look, clearly trying to say something without Roger knowing. John eventually nodded, and Brian turned back to face Roger. 

"Yes," he said. "Jimmy, my eldest, was born in 1978. You're his godfather. He's four. And Louisa, she's a baby, was just born last May." 

Once again, Brian shifted in his seat, but this time, it was to pull out his wallet. Flipping it open, he showed off pictures of a chubby cheeked baby who already inherited the famous curls, and a smiling four year old clutching a plush dinosaur. Another showed Chrissie, exhaustion tight in the corners of her eyes, holding a newborn while a beaming Brian stood next to her. The little boy holding the Red Special, pretending to play. And finally, one of the four of them, Brian standing proud while holding Jimmy's hand. 

"Wow," Roger breathed, staring at the pictures. "They're so little." 

"Jimmy's growing like a weed," Brian chuckled. "Feels like every time I see him he's gotten bigger. And Louisa, she's already talking, her first word was 'dada', if you can believe it. Chrissie also thinks she'll be walking any day now, she keeps pulling herself up, but isn't able to actually walk." 

Roger sat in awe while Brian continued to fill him in about everything; Jimmy's first words, the time he drew all over the walls, how Louisa had been so colicky that Chrissie's mother had to come assist with the baby just so they could get a few hours sleep. There was so much he'd forgotten, but this, this hurt him the most. Brian was a father; he had a wife and two beautiful children, and Roger couldn't remember any of it. 

"If you get the chance, maybe you could give Jimmy a call? Let him know you're okay?" Brian asked, looking down at the picture to stroke over the frozen apple of his son's cheek. "He was so worried, kept having nightmares even after I told him you were fine. Chrissie, she was so angry that I did, you should have heard her. Going off about how he was so young, he shouldn't have been told. But you're his godfather, I thought it'd be best! And now, well, you're doing better. So what do you think? Maybe later this week, just give him a ring?" 

Roger looked to John, who was watching him carefully. John lifted one shoulder, as if to say, _it's up to you_. 

"Yes, Bri," Roger agreed. "I'd love that." 

Brian beamed. "Excellent! You just let me know when's best, and I'll make sure Chrissie has Jimmy home." 

They visited for a few more minutes before Brian begged off in favor of going home for dinner, leaving behind the scribbled drawing and card on the coffee table. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, John," Brian added over his shoulder before he swanned out the door, bundling his coat up against the wind. The door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the pictures on the wall; John raised his eyes to the heavens. 

"I cannot believe he's a father," Roger repeated, shocked. "I just...I still picture him as that wiry nerd with too much hair asking me how to tune a drum." 

"You and me both," John yawned as he stretched. Falling down next to him on the couch, he casually slung one arm over the back of the couch. "Now, let's see what Jimmy made you." 

"And Louisa, can't forget that she helped," teased Roger, passing over the card. 

"Of course not," John chuckled. "Oh look! He drew you a dinosaur. That's your fault, you know. Kept buying him all sorts of things covered in t-rex's and stegosaurus'. Brian just about had a fit when he realized his son was more interested in 'lizards' than space." 

Roger fought the urge to curl into John's side, choosing instead to twist so they were facing each other. "Tell me more?" 

The look John gave him was soft, gentle almost, "You're an excellent godfather. You've never missed his birthday, or Christmas. In fact, sometimes I think you spoil him more than Brian does; always sending the latest toy or book. Once, Chrissie just about chewed your head off because you'd bought him some toy he'd been demanding for his birthday, and then got so excited you gave it to him three days early, not knowing she'd already bought it for him! You felt so bad, you arranged for a private tour of the Natural History Museum, just so he could see the dinosaurs, and told him it was from her." 

"I'm sure she loved that," Roger laughed. John nudged their knees together. 

"She forgave you. Eventually." 

John spent the rest of the evening regaling him with tales of his godfather-hood, and all the while Roger listened carefully, trying his best to memorize it all, terrified to forget again.

*

As January bled into February, Roger's concussion showed signs of improving. His balance was slowly but surely coming back, and his flare ups were losing their regularity. He was cleared for light excursions, and in celebration, John took him out for _dampfnudeln mi vanillesauce_ , absolutely butchering the pronunciation in the process. They'd eaten the dumplings and ice cream together at the pub, laughing at their lack of German and the ridiculousness of the situation. He'd also been allowed to watch television again, and forced Crystal to take him to a video rental so he could catch up on all the films he'd forgotten. 

John had come home to find the two of them crying while _The Fox and The Hound_ played on the television. Thinking the worst, John had scrambled over to the couch, falling to his knees before Roger and demanding to know what was hurting. He found it a lot less amusing once he'd realized they'd been crying over a cartoon fox and dog, but nonetheless, went to make Roger a cup of decaffeinated tea and Crystal a beer. 

However, all good things must end. As Roger spent more time out of the studio recovering, the recording of the album slowly began to stall until, one day, John came home in a fit of fury. 

"They're demanding Crystal come in tomorrow," John snarled, throwing his jacket onto the breakfront instead of hanging it neatly on the coatrack as he usually did. "They want to have him record a sample track, so they can flesh out the rest of their song." 

"Oh," said Roger, feeling rather small. He knew that it was only temporary—the doctors were promising he'd be back and recording by late February—but the thought of being replaced by a machine or even someone else made something deep inside him twist. "Well, so it'll be you and me again. I haven't watched that Spielberg movie, _Indiana Jones_? Want to watch it with me?" 

the look he received from John was pitying, "You don't understand. The record wants us both in the studio tomorrow. I...I don't know who I'm going to have watch you, as you're still not up to be left alone."

"Oh. _Oh_."

"Yeah. I've spoken with Freddie, he said he'll handle it, find someone trustworthy to watch you. God, this whole situation sucks," John ran his hand down his face, sighing deeply. 

"Don't worry," Roger assured him. "I trust Freddie with my life. I'm sure whoever he chooses will be perfect."

*

"Absolutely not," Roger snarled, glaring over at Paul fucking Prenter, who had had the gaul to ask John for a cup of tea. "Freddie, you've got to be kidding." 

"Sorry, darling," Freddie shrugged. "There was no one else available. And believe me, Paul isn't exactly thrilled to have to be watching you, either. But!" he added, noticing Roger's thunderous expression. "It shouldn't be a long day, and we'll have Crystal ready and free by lunchtime." 

"Fred. C'mon." 

"Look, Roger, we don't have any other choice. You're lucky Paul was nice enough to agree to this," Freddie warned, pinning him with a deadly glare. Meanwhile, Prenter stood in their kitchen, now asking John for sugar. Roger hoped John would spit in his tea. "I've also taken the liberty of going over all the instructions on how to take care of our little delicate flower. You'll be in excellent hands." 

"Can't anyone else watch me? What about Ratty? Or hell, Miami?" 

"Roger. It's done. You can survive four hours with Paul." 

"I feel like you're asking too much of him," John said dryly, handing off the mug to Prenter. He came up next to Roger, placing one warm hand on his shoulder. "I know this isn't ideal; I hate the idea just as much as you do. But we don't have any other choice. And I'm going to call in every hour, just to check in. How does that sound?" 

"No need," Prenter smirked, swarming up behind John. "I promise he's in good hands." 

John rolled his eyes; Roger barely suppressed his own smirk. "Alright, Prenter here's how it goes—"

While John laid out the rules for Prenter, Roger turned back towards Freddie, asking him to help him back to his bedroom. While Roger didn't need the assistance as much as before, he wanted to use it for an excuse to get away from Prenter, and to spend more time with Freddie. They hadn't been able to spend as much time together, since the accident, and he missed his best friend. He let Freddie's aimless chatter about the album and the songs they were working on wash over him, nodding when appropriate. 

It felt like no time at all before John rapped on the door, drawing Freddie away. 

"I promise, every hour," John repeated, coming over to smooth the blankets over Roger's legs. "And if I don't hear from you, I'll send Crystal over to make sure the two of you haven't killed each other." 

"I'm not making any promises," Roger grumbled. 

"I know you'll be on your best behavior," John warned. "Don't give him a reason to poison your lunch, and try not to terrorize him _too_ much." 

"Go, have fun while I suffer." Roger shooed him off with a wave of his hand. John smiled fondly, patting him on the leg before he left. Roger watched him leave, listening until the front door closed all the way before snuggling down in bed. Closing his eyes, he willed himself back to sleep; the less time he'd have to spend with Prenter, the better. 

 

Roger awoke an hour later, his bladder full and aching, while his head felt fuzzy. Groaning, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to fight the urge to throw up. Reaching over he grabbed the little bell and rang it, flinching as it echoed in his head. Fuck, it felt like he was on the verge of a flare up. When Prenter didn't come, he rang the bell again, scowling. 

It took Prenter two agonizing minutes to arrive, leaning against the door frame. "What, Taylor." 

"Need t'piss," he grunted, squinting against the light of the hallway. "Help me." 

Prenter pulled a face, "Really? You need me to help you go t'the bathroom?" 

Roger threw back his blankets, carefully allowing his legs to dangle. "I just need you to help me get there," he snapped. "Don't be such a _dick_." 

Muttering under his breath, Prenter threw his hands in the air before coming to assist him. Unlike Crystal or John, Prenter's version of help was barely more than a hand on his arm, barely assisting his weight. With each step, Roger's head began to pound more. By the time he reached the bathroom, he knew he was on the verge of a flare up. 

"Look," he said slowly, panting from the effort and the pain. "Can you get me my pill and a flannel while I pee? I'll be quick, then I want to go back to bed." 

Prenter rolled his eyes, "Sure, Taylor. I'll get them for you." He stalked off down the hall, leaving Roger standing in the bathroom. 

Crossing the bathroom to the toilet felt like crossing the Sahara, each step grew heavier until, finally, he made it to the toilet. He hadn't had to sit to pee since his first week home, but the thought of standing made his stomach roll violently. Weakly, he sunk onto the pot, resting his head in his hands while he did his business. When he finished, he still spent a few extra minutes just sitting there, working to gather the energy to stand. He slowly counted down from three, grabbed onto the edge of the sink and the wall, and stood. 

Immediately, the world twisted sideways. Roger stumbled, struggling to keep his balance while his whole equilibrium flip flopped. Panicked, he fought to grab onto anything, something, that would keep him from falling and hitting his head again. With leadened feet, he made his way to the edge of the bathtub, but lost his balance once more. Twisting carefully, he landed on his arse with a heavy thump. Roger could have burst into relieved tears just from avoiding hitting his head once more. 

"Prenter!" he shouted, his stomach aching and head spinning. There was no way he would be able to stand, let alone _walk_ back to his bed. As much as it pained him, he needed Prenter. "Prenter, c'mere!" 

Roger strained his ears for the telltale footsteps, but none came. Cursing, he clenched his eyes shut as the pain in his head continued to rise. "Prenter! I need you!" 

It felt as though his head were splitting in two, like an overripe melon dropped on the floor. Swallowing bile, Roger tried one more time to call for Paul. There was no response. Roger fought back his panic as he slowly tilted sideways onto the floor allowing his head to loll against the bathroom tile. His head was aching, the flare up running rampant without his pills to stave off the worst of it. 

"John," Roger whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. John never would have let this happen. 

As the pressure in his head increased, Roger rolled over to his stomach and gave up, letting the pain wash over him until he could focus on nothing else.

Roger didn’t know how long he’d laid on the floor of the bathroom, the tile cold against his feverish forehead. Face down, curled up around the bathmat and a fallen towel, Roger fought to keep the light from his eyes. His head felt as though it were breaking, the pressure in his brain so much that he thought for sure his head would explode like a Roman candle on Bonfire Night. His stomach rolled; dimly, he was aware that he must have vomited. 

He called out for Prenter once more, his voice weak, the action itself causing him to moan pathetically and fight the need to purge his stomach once more. He was going to die there, stuck on a bathroom floor while his head threatened to give in. They’d find him eventually, a pathetic husk of who he used to be. Tears welled in his eyes. Why wasn’t John coming to help him? Where was he? Didn’t he know he was in pain? 

 

The tide, the tides had brought him to the shore, but he was being pounded against the rocks. His head, it hurt—he was cold. He shivered; as his teeth chattered, it reverberated in his skull and he wailed from the pain. Everything hurt and he cried and he suffered and he wretched and it hurt. It hurt. He felt as though he couldn’t breathe, he was drowning, drowning, drowning—

 

_“Where the fuck is he?”_

Roger startled, mewling as his head shifted and spun from the movement. He knew that voice. 

“Crystal,” he tried to call, his whole body breaking out into a sweat as the pain cut sharp and hot beneath his skull. “M’here.” 

“What do you mean where is he?” Prenter—fucking Prenter—snapped. “He’s in bed.” 

“No he fucking is not! Where is he? He’s not there!” Crystal roared. Roger balked. It was too loud, his head—

“John,” he whispered, his fingers clenching against the air. “John, please.” 

“I left him in his fucking bed, he didn’t get up once!” snarled Prenter. They were so close, he could hear them, why couldn’t they hear him? He tried once more, but it was in vain. The moment he called for Crystal, for John, hell, even for Prenter, it was drowned out by the screech of the phone. 

Thankfully, it was cut off by Crystal’s short bark, “What? John, fuck, thank god. I don’t know what the fuck Prenter did but he’s not here. No, I don’t—I don’t know where he is! Prenter swears, says he didn’t leave the bed—shit, Deaks, I don’t _know_! I just got here, okay?” 

John, John was on the phone, John was there, John would make the pain stop, he’d help. He just had to call for him, just had to let them know where he was. He tried. 

“I swear to God, Prenter,” Crystal was snarling, so close, so close, so close. “I’ll fucking kill you. If anything’s happened to him, if he’s—” 

“Nothing’s happened! I told you, he was just in bed—”

“Nothing’s happened? He’s _missing_ , you shit for brains! Do you have any idea what that means?” 

Roger tried so hard to move, but his _head_ , his head, it hurt, he was hurting, he was dying...where was John? 

“John,” he tried. John would fix this, John would make it better. 

His face was wet. 

“Look, he was sleeping! He got up t’piss and then went straight back to bed,” Prenter argued. “That’s all, alright?” 

“He—he went for a piss?” Crystal echoed. There was a moment, and then—

Roger whimpered as the door flew open with a loud crash. His head, his head his head his head hisheadhisheadhishead—

Someone was calling for him but he couldn’t hear anything over the roar in his mind and the throbbing behind his eyes. Hands, warm against the chill of the tile and the marble of his cheeks. 

“John,” he whispered. “John.” 

Fingers at his eyes, pulling back his eyelids—he cried out. The light.

“I know,” Crystal murmured from above him, his voice utterly broken and shattered. “Shh, it’s okay, I’m just checking. Did you hit your head?” 

“M’head,” Roger mewled. “M’head hurts.” 

“It’s gonna be okay, alright? It’s gonna be okay. C’mon, c’mere, let me get you up—” 

Arms, around his chest, under his legs, picking him up. His stomach rolled, and he turned, fighting to be let back down. Crystal wouldn’t let go, though, and he vomited down onto his feet, moaning as the pressure in his head rose. Once he'd finished throwing up, Crystal continued to carry him, leaving behind the starch whiteness of the bathroom and into the cool darkness of his bedroom. He was placed on his bed, the mattress soft under his aching body. 

"You absolute bastard," Crystal hissed. Roger flinched; it was too loud. "His fucking—you left his pill right here! You knew he was in pain and you left him!"

"I thought he could walk on his own, no one told me I'd have to carry him from the toilet like an invalid—" There was an echoing crack, followed by a howl of pain and a curse. "You fucker, I think you broke my nose!" 

"Get the fuck out of here before I wring your goddamn neck," Crystal snarled. "If I see you near him again, I'll kill you. See if I fucking don't, Prenter. If he's hit his head, if he's injured, I swear to you, they'll never find your fucking body." 

"Chris," Roger whimpered, twisting on the bed as he fought to relieve the pressure in his head. "Chris, m'head." 

"Shit, Rog, I know," Crystal's hands were quickly on his forehead, cool and soothing. "Hey, hey, hey, no, don't cry. I've got your pill, right here. And a flannel." 

"M'dying," Roger gasped. "M'head, it's exploding." 

"Don't talk like that! It's going to be okay. Deacy's on his way, Rog. Deacy's coming." 

Hands lifted his head, assisting him in enough so that he could sip at the water, before his pill was dropped in his mouth. He swallowed gratefully. Crystal let him lay back down and draped the flannel across his eyes. 

"I'm going to call Deacy, Roger. He's gonna tell me what to do. You hang in there—Roger? Roger!" 

Whatever else Crystal was trying to say faded out as Roger felt his mind slowly slip away, tugging him into blissful unconsciousness.

*

Roger awoke once more to the repetitive beeping of the heart monitor. He flinched from the noise, reaching up to rub the sleep from his eyes. At least, he attempted to. Upon further inspection, he discovered that his hand was held tightly in someone else's, preventing him from moving it. He flopped his head over to the side to take in the sight of John once more at his bedside, his expression tight and pinched under the fluorescent lights. 

"Hey," Roger murmured, squeezing his fingers. John looked up at him, utterly defeated. 

"Hey," he repeated, just as soft. "How are you feeling." 

"Like shit," Roger grunted, suddenly overwashed with déjà vu. His heart skipped a beat as he glanced around the room, desperate to see anything that would let him know if he'd skipped anymore time. "Wait, no, John, fuck, what day is it? What year? Have I—did I forget more? Shit, John, tell me I didn't forget more—"

"Shh, shh, calm down," John leapt to his feet, reaching over to press down on Roger's shoulders, grounding him to the bed. "It's been six hours, Roger. It's still 1982. You had a flare up, and because Prenter didn't give you your pill, it spiraled out of control. Crystal found you on the bathroom, we don't know how long you were lying there, but the doctor's say you didn't hit your head again. You're okay, Roger. Just got some painkillers and an IV." 

Roger slumped back against his pillowed, relieved. For a moment he was terrified that he'd woken up further in the future, missing more memories and struggling even more to keep up. 

"I'm okay?"

John nodded, his face pinched. "You're going to be okay. Although, once you're fully healed, I'm going to kill you myself. I swear, you're going to turn me grey." 

"Hey," Roger protested. "This was not my fault." 

John's expression got, if possible, even more sour, "Trust me, I'm well aware. It might make you feel better to know that Crystal managed to break Prenter's nose." 

At that, Roger couldn't help but smile, "Atta boy," he grinned. "Always knew he loved me best." 

John ducked his head, shaking it slightly. When he looked back him, Roger was touched to see that he was teary eyed. Roger reached out to grab John's hand, "Hey, I'm okay." 

"You almost weren't. _Again_. You have to stop doing this to me, Rog. I don't think—I don't know if I can handle this again." 

"I swear, next time we'll have whoever is watching me leave the pills on the nightstand." 

"Next time?" John chuckled darkly. "There won't be a next time. I'm never letting you out of my sight again after this." 

"Promise?" Roger teased. He expected a little smile, maybe even a laugh. What he didn't expect was for John to grab his hand all the more harder, bringing it up to his mouth for the very mockery of a kiss. 

"Promise," John vowed, sealing it with his lips to Roger's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sure you might have noticed that i've added two chapters to this fic. that is because otherwise this chapter would have been close to 40K as well as the next two. instead, i've decided to cut them both in half. i'm also still trying to keep to the same basic schedule of having each new chapter out after about a week and a half, give or take. 
> 
> i do work best under pressure so feel free to come hit me up on my tumblr [ talkingismylifewrites ](https://talkingismylifewrites.tumblr.com/)and bully me into producing more hc's or the newest chapter. alls fair in love and fanfic
> 
>  
> 
> comment if you loved it, comment if you hate it, comment just to show you care
> 
>  
> 
> p.s know what other banger was written in '79? [ escape (the piña colada song)](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1251935)


	3. i can still hear you say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Roger's release from the hospital, John proceeded to put both of them—and the house—on lockdown. The only person actually allowed to visit unsupervised was Crystal who, after his dramatic rescue of Roger, had earned John's respect and gratitude. Everyone else was restricted to monitored visits with John sat next to Roger on the couch, glowering at the poor soul until they left. Freddie, in particular, fell victim to this sort of treatment upon his visiting. 
> 
> "Honestly," Freddie sighed, leaning forward to rest one hand on Roger's knee. "It was just a freak accident. Paul had no idea you were in so much pain, darling—" 
> 
> "Freddie," John snarled, warningly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot stress enough how much i recommend enjoying this fic with a glass of wine and celine dion's classic _it's all coming back to me now_
> 
>  
> 
> you have been adequately warned

Following Roger's release from the hospital, John proceeded to put both of them—and the house—on lockdown. The only person actually allowed to visit unsupervised was Crystal who, after his dramatic rescue of Roger, had earned John's respect and gratitude. Everyone else was restricted to monitored visits with John sat next to Roger on the couch, glowering at the poor soul until they left. Freddie, in particular, fell victim to this sort of treatment upon his visiting. 

"Honestly," Freddie sighed, leaning forward to rest one hand on Roger's knee. "It was just a freak accident. Paul had no idea you were in so much pain, darling—" 

"Freddie," John snarled, warningly. 

Freddie threw his hands up in surrender, "Fine, fine, I'm _sorry_ alright?" 

"It's not you who needs to apologize," John sniffed. "You're not the one who _abandoned_ Roger on the bathroom floor, or left him alone for so long that he could have fallen and died." 

"Yes, but Paul has been warned not to come over, hasn't he? What was it Crystal said—if he saw him even look at Roger he'd kill him with his own hands?" 

Roger did very little to hide his very pleased smirk. "I have no control over what Crystal says or does," he said loftily. "He's his own man." 

"I'm sure," Freddie said snidely. "Look, you're fine, nothing happened, we can all just forgive and forget." 

"No," said John with a tone that warned of imminent danger. "There is no forgiving or forgetting that Roger almost died _again_." 

"What will make you move past this?" Freddie asked. "Do you want Paul's head on a silver platter?" 

"That's a start," Roger muttered under his breath, ignoring Freddie's wounded look.

"It's not up to you to make it better," John sniffed. "But until I'm sure Roger is in safe and capable hands, I will not be returning to the studio. I can't trust anyone else to take care of him." 

"Deacy—" 

"I mean it, Fred. I'm not risking Roger's life just so you can fit the label's timeline," John snapped, his hands curling in the wrinkles of his jeans. "If they want me, they'll have to wait for him to get better." 

"Roger, honestly, tell me you're not just going to go along with this," Freddie demanded with a roll of his eyes. Next to him, John stiffened, but relaxed when Roger dropped his hand onto his knee. 

"I'm not going along with anything," Roger shrugged. "John is an adult, and if he wants to stay home, he can stay home." 

"You're a grown man, you don't need a babysitter!" 

"I have a traumatic brain injury," Roger deadpanned. "Even a grown man needs someone _trustworthy_ around to help him when he can't bloody walk, Fred. Whatever Deacy chooses, I'll support." 

"We need him in the studio," Freddie snapped, throwing his hands in the air. "We can't finish the album without him!" 

At that Roger narrowed his eyes, leaning forward, "I thought you couldn't finish the album without either of us. How are you going to finish if I'm not able to play?"

Freddie rolled his eyes theatrically, but his tone was soft and sweet when he said, "Don't be stupid, Rog. Of course we're not finishing it without you, but you've still got a cast on, haven't you? Can't have you come in laying down tracks until that's off. Believe me when I say we're not sending anything to the presses until you've gotten a final word in." 

Roger felt himself relax, slumping back onto the couch. 

"When Roger can come back to the studio, so will I," John repeated in a tone that spoke of finality. "Until then, it'll just have to be you and Brian."

"John—"

"Drop it, Fred," John warned. Shockingly, Freddie did as he was told, mirror Roger in slumping back in his seat and running a hand down his face. 

"Fine, John, have it your way. But the longer you stay out of the studio, the more Brian has time to play with your work, just think on that." 

" _Freddie_." 

Freddie threw his hands up in surrender, shrugging, "That's all I'm saying. But fine, I'll drop it. No more mention of studio work. Roger, darling, has anyone caught you up on everything that's been happening on _Coronation Street?_ "

 

Freddie stayed through dinner, and, true to his word, didn't mention anything further about returning to the studio. By the time they were finishing up eating, it was almost like old times, the three of them laughing over too much food and reminiscing over past shenanigans. It was something Roger hadn't even realized he'd missed, and he found himself aching to recall every little laugh and comment, just in case he'd forget again. 

When Freddie decided to leave—or more accurately, caught sight of Roger yawning into his bowl of ice cream—Roger insisted on walking him to the door himself, wanting as much time with Freddie as he could get. John watched him carefully, poised to run and grab him should he slip and fall, or even wobble. Freddie, however, was playing the perfect gentleman by keeping a hand on his arm, just in case. Roger didn't _need_ the assistance, but it was welcomed all the same. 

"Thanks for coming over tonight, Fred. It's nice to catch up again, hang out," Roger said once they'd reached the door. "I feel like I haven't been seeing much of you lately." 

Freddie grinned, yanking him forward to tug him into a tight hug, "Oh, darling, you know I'm only just a phone call away. You can always give me a ring." 

He pulled back, reaching up to tap a finger on Roger's nose. Despite the sweetness of the gesture, there was something sad in his expression, and he quickly looked away from Roger, reaching for the door without even a proper goodbye.

That was unlike him, and Roger found himself frowning, reaching out to stop him before he could leave, "What's wrong, Freddie?" 

"Nothing! I'm perfectly fine, just a bit tired—"

"Bullshit," Roger snapped. "Why won't you even look me in the eye?" At that, Freddie did look up, amused, yet sad. Almost ashamed. Roger sighed, "Freddie, c'mon. You're my best friend. What's wrong?" 

"You almost died, Roger. _Again_ ," Freddie finally admitted wretchedly, looking down again. "You have to know, when I heard what happened, when I heard what Paul did—well, if Crystal hadn't broken his nose, I would have. In fact, he might have rather I'd've broken his nose. I was rather...rather harsh with my temper. Gave him a right proper dressing down." 

Roger's chest filled with warmth, "Aw, Freddie. You do care!"

"It's not funny," huffed Freddie with a scowl. "I'm serious Roger. You scared me half to death, again. I thought—I thought I was going to lose you, and it would be all my fault." Roger made to protest, but Freddie cut him off with a raised hand. "I know, I know, I wasn't there, but I was the one who insisted that Paul stay with you. If I'd sent someone else...I promised you and John that you'd be in good hands, and you weren't. That's on me. I'd never have been able to forgive myself if anything had happened to you." 

"I love you, too, Freddie," Roger sniffled, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. 

"Don't get all sappy on me now, Blondie," Freddie attempted to snap, but he, too, was sounding a little weepy. "You're my best friend—my brother. I need you to hurry up and get better so we can get back to work without worrying about you doing something stupid like falling in the bathroom." 

"I'll do my best," Roger promised with a wet little laugh. They hugged again, this time harder. Freddie thumped him on the back before pulling away, sniffling. 

"Jesus, Roger, you're always so emotional," Freddie coughed wetly, turning away as he scrubbed at his eyes. "Getting your tears and feelings all over me." 

"Pretty sure you were the sappy one first," Roger laughed as he opened the door for him. "All this is your fault." 

"Lies and slander, you bitch."

Roger watched as Freddie swanned through the front door, tossing a kiss and a wave goodbye over his shoulder as he skipped down the front steps towards the car waiting for him. He waited until the car was no longer visible before he swung the door shut, wiping at his face once more. Shaking his head, he headed back into the kitchen were John was still steadfastly cleaning up after dinner, the radio playing softly in the background. 

"Good talk with Freddie?" John asked from the sink, trying to scrub off the caked on mash from their shepherd's pie. 

"Don't pretend like you weren't listening in on the whole conversation." 

Roger hoisted himself up on the kitchen counter, ignoring John's disapproving glare. 

"Can't help but overhear when you're both practically shouting in the front hall," John countered, flicking soap suds at Roger, who flinched back theatrically. "It was nice to see you two hanging out again. I think it's good for you." 

"Thanks, mum; glad to know I have your approval." 

"Can you not be a dick for thirty seconds?" John huffed as he added more soap to the dish. 

"Needs more hot water, not more soap," Roger offered. John finally turned from the sink, annoyed. 

"Would you rather do it yourself?" 

Roger grinned, cheeky, and lifted his left hand still entombed in the cast, "Can't, mate. Get out of dishes free card." 

"Keep up the attitude and I'll make you cook for yourself," John grumbled as he went back to the dish. "See how funny you find it when you've got scurvy." 

The kitchen fell into an easy silence, broken only by the gentle hum of the latest German pop music crooning in the background. Watching from under his lashes, Roger couldn't help but notice and admire how John sang along with the song under his breath, wiggling his hips while he worked on the casserole dish. Roger wanted to reach out and touch. He wanted to come up behind him and rest his chin on his shoulder, wrap his arms around his waist. He wanted John to turn towards him with his cocky little half grin and steal a kiss.

Instead, he cleared his throat, "So. What's with you not going back to the studio." 

In the back of his mind, he cringed at how he'd spoiled the easy contentment the evening had fallen into as John tensed, the sponge slipping from his hand and landing back into the sink with a sad little plop. 

"I don't have to explain myself to you," John said in a tight voice. "I've already said my peace." 

"Yeah, and I don't agree with it. You know as well as I do that Crystal is perfectly capable of watching me and that what happened with Prenter was a freak accident. Even the doctors said that it shouldn't happen again." 

"They said there's a _possibility_ the flare ups will stop, not that they're going to _now_ ," John countered, still measuredly calm. "That's not a sure thing. As for Crystal, while he has taken care of you in the past, that doesn't mean that he'll still be able to take care of you in the future. Who knows what could happen? Maybe he steps out for a smoke—"

"Now you're just being ridiculous, John," Roger huffed as he cut him off with a roll of his eyes. "Crystal _broke Prenter's nose_ for me. That's dedication." 

"Dedication doesn't mean that he can't make a mistake." 

"The same goes for you, Deaks," Roger snapped. John recoiled, obviously hurt. Roger ached to pull him close and sooth the wrinkle between his eyes with his thumb. "I'm just saying, I could just as easily be injured when you're watching me as when Crystal is." 

"I would never leave you on the bathroom floor—"

"Neither would Crystal." 

"And I'd never let you get hurt—"

"And neither has Crystal. Look, there's no reason for you not to go back to the studio other than being a stubborn bastard who's digging his heels in the ground. You shouldn't stay out of the studio just for my sake," Roger said carefully. John was so tense, he was afraid he'd snap in two, his shoulders set like the string of a bow, too taunt and in danger of breaking. 

"Doesn't matter, it's my decision and I'm not letting you out of my sight. And I'm not going to argue over it with you." 

"Stop talking down to me like I'm a child," Roger barked, his temper rising. "I'm twenty-eight years old—"

"This just proves my point," John cut him off with a snort. "You're not twenty-eight, Roger, you're _thirty-two_. And you almost died for the second time not even three days ago, and you want me to just leave you? Alone?" 

"No!" Roger cried. "I'm not asking you to leave me alone, I'm asking you to trust that Crystal and I are perfectly capable of staying home together while _you_ go back and finish the album! Christ, John, don't you get it?" He ran his hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at John. He felt like a butterfly pinned under his gaze, too weighted. "I'd do _anything_ to get back into the studio. I want—I want to be able to play again. I'd sell my soul just for the chance, and you're throwing it away over some convoluted power trip." 

Suddenly, he found himself enveloped in a rather awkward hug. John was pressed in between his legs, his arms tight around his shoulders as Roger's chin came to tower over the top of his head thanks to the added height of the counter. Roger, at first startled, relaxed into the embrace, burying his face into John's hair, savoring the moment. He smelled faintly of apples. 

"I promise you, you'll be back in the studio before you know it," John vowed into Roger's chest, his voice muffled by the wool of his sweater. 

"I know it hasn't been easy, taking care of me," Roger confessed, paying attention to the way John stiffened before forcing himself to relax. "And I appreciate everything you've been doing for me. But I think you need to go back to the studio." 

"I hear what you're saying, and while I appreciate the support," John sighed as he stepped back. "I'm not going back in until you can." 

Roger fought very hard not to roll his eyes in annoyance, "Fine. We can figure something out. I've been cleared for small crowds, right? Maybe we can talk to Dr. Mitchell, see if it would be alright for me to come into the studio." John opened his mouth as though to argue back. Roger cut him off quickly, "Not to play, of course. But there has to be a couch I can sit on, right? I can just chill out, be around, watch you guys record. That way you can keep an eye on me, and I can earn my place in the band back."

"You don't have to earn your place back, we never replaced you," John cleared his throat, stepping further back while looking away. "We...we can talk to the doctor. See if that's something you can handle." 

"See? Perfect! We're killing two birds with one stone," Roger grinned, cheeky. "Now, leave that stupid dish in the sink to soak overnight, I think you've scrubbed off half the varnish trying to clean it." 

 

*

 

Five days later, Roger was cleared for moderated and monitored recording time. Absolutely no drumming, no performing, and—the doctors couldn't emphasize this enough—no pushing beyond his limits. The moment he felt even the slightest twinge of pain, he was to immediately tell someone and be taken home. Furthermore, he wasn't allowed to stay longer than four hours, and was expected to keep a regimented log of his diet, sleep, and symptoms to track his progress. All in all it was more work than staying home with a companion, but it meant getting back to work. 

Roger didn't care what hoops he'd have to jump through or the troubles he'd have to endure in order to get back to recording. If they'd asked for his first born he'd have given it away willingly just for a shot to get back into the action. Roger had missed recording like he'd missed his left arm or his front tooth. Knowing that John, Brian, and Freddie were continuing their work while he was laid up in bed—due to his own fault—had felt like the lowest of blows. Recording was something he was not only good at but something he enjoyed. He loved the hard work, the long hours, the absolute brutality of trying to coax the rhythm and music from his head into something real and tangible. It was the world's greatest puzzle, and well, Roger considered himself a puzzle master. 

There was also the matter of Roger's deepest and purest fear. The whole while he'd laid in bed, immobile and hurting and wretched, he'd let the anxiety and fear of being replaced creep into his brain. There was the whole matter of his inability to play, added with the fact that there were two entire albums and singles that _Roger couldn't remember_. Crystal had attempted to play _Jazz_ for him, but the thought of hearing his own music and his own rhythm for the first time, when he had no recollection of even knowing the music, had sunk his stomach like an anchor. After the second song Roger had reached for the needle, letting it come to a screeching stop. They hadn't said anything, in the dark little bedroom, still stretched out on the floor like children. Crystal had ignored the wet little gasps of Roger clearing his throat in favor of packing away the record. By the time John had come home from the studio, they had moved past the whole ordeal, furiously pretending nothing had happened. 

They hadn't spoken of it since. 

But the fear lived on, in his head, that they would replace him with someone better, someone who could play. Or, worse yet, a machine. John had mentioned that the majority of their songs had been built out with a drum machine. 

"We'll re-record, of course," John had assured him over dinner. "Once you're better, we'll go over everything once more, take out the machines and just have you play." 

"Of course," Roger had repeated quietly, scraping his fork over the china of his plate. 

It was one thing to say something, another to actually follow through. Not that he doubted John, but he understood how these things worked. When Brian had nearly died from hepatitis and then again from his ulcer, the three of them had had to fight tooth and nail for the record company to let them wait for Brian to recover before finishing the album. The record label had wanted them to find a replacement, even after Brian had told them he'd make a full recovery. In the month since he'd left the hospital, Roger hadn't made any progress on his memory. What would he do when it came time to tour? What could they even do with a drummer who couldn't even drum?

Images of him stalling mid-concert kept him awake the night before his first day back. Blinking up into the dark, Roger lay anxiously into the early morning with all the toxic worries and fears of being replaced or forgotten swirling around in his head. He'd always prided himself on never having stage fright or anything of the sort; he'd been proud and so sure of their abilities and talent that fear of failing had never been in his mind. But now? Now things were wrong, and what had once made sense was now muddled—nothing was right anymore. 

When the anxiety got too much to handle, Roger rolled over with a groan, pushing himself upright. Slowly, he made his way into the kitchen, pausing every now and again when he thought he heard John upstairs. The last thing he wanted was for John to catch him out of bed the night before he was finally due back in society. Tiptoeing, he snuck into the kitchen and fetched himself a glass of water. 

Normally he'd be reaching for the alcohol, but ever since the disastrous flare up when Prenter had been watching him, he loathed the idea of doing anything that might trigger something similar. With few other options, Roger stuck to his glass of tap water, leaning back against the counter. The moment he was fully healed from his concussion, he decided, he was going to go out on the town and get carried back. Preferably by John. John, who'd carefully undress him and tuck him into bed. John, who in the morning would make him a bacon and egg butty with too strong tea and a side of ibuprofen. John, who'd smile at him over the top of his own mug and knock their knees together under the table. John who'd—

Roger startled himself out of his daydream, knocking the glass over, spilling water everywhere. With a groan, he dropped his head into his hands. Ever since he'd woken up in the hospital for the second time—or rather, ever since John had _kissed the back of his hand_ —Roger had been well, for lack of a better word, _feeling_. He'd gone and imprinted on John like a baby duckling. The simplest look from John could send him into a blushing, fumbling mess. When he'd gotten home from the hospital, John had helped him into bed and tucked him in with a hand smoothed over his hair and Roger had just about melted. The feel of John's hand, slightly cool from the outside chill and rough from his callouses haunted Roger for days afterwards. Even now, just thinking about it made his knees weak. 

He'd read about this, back in a mandatory psychology course in university. Reverse Florence Nightingale Syndrome; wherein the patient falls in love with the person caring for him. After learning that he and Dom were no longer together, and what with John being so damn nice and caring, Roger had gone and developed an unhealthy obsession with John, mistaking his gratitude for actual romantic feelings. Typical Roger, so desperate for love and affection, or even sex, that he had to go and fall arse over tea kettle for his best mate and the person who'd practically given up everything to care for him in his hours of need. What bullshit. 

Mopping up the spilled water, Roger grumbled under his breath at his displeasure of being unable to drink away his embarrassment. As he rung out the excess water from the dish towel over the sink, he decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. The lack of alcohol forced his hand in other ways. With one more glance back at the staircase to make sure John hadn't woken up, Roger crept carefully to the broom closet where he knew John had hidden his tea cakes and custard cremes. 

John's sweet tooth was well known and well defended. Once, back when they'd first moved in together Post-Veronica, Roger had gotten absolutely pissed and drunkenly devoured all of John's chocolate Hobnobs. The carnage had been discovered the next morning by a beyond irate John who, in his fit of rage, had slapped Roger awake with the empty box before promising him hell if they weren't replaced in the next twenty minutes. Roger had been so shocked by the display that he had stumbled, bleary-eyed and still drunk to the corner store and sheepishly returned, Hobnobs in hand. They'd both learned two things about each other that night: one, that John would have to hide his treats like a parent would hide presents from Santa, and two, that Roger was never, ever, allowed to finish the last of his chocolate sweets upon pain of death. 

But John was asleep, and as much as he loved his biscuits, Roger was positive that he wouldn't hit him while he was still incapacitated with a skull fracture. After? Most definitely. That, however, was Future Roger's problem. 

Shoving aside the dustbin and mop bucket, Roger fished the packets out from under a pile of rags, heading back to the table to settle in for his midnight feast. He had half a custard creme stuffed in his cheek like a squirrel when the kitchen light flickered on overhead. Panicked, Roger whipped around to find a disapproving John glaring at him from the doorway, rumpled in his green and white plaid flannel pajamas and a thin-worn Queen shirt from their '73 tour. 

"You're like a bloody hound dog," he grunted as he rubbed the sleep from his eye. "No matter how well I hide them, you always manage to sniff them out." 

Dryly swallowing his mouthful, Roger coughed out, "Sorry, Deaks. In my defense, I'm not allowed to drink whisky, and well. Figured you'd be less upset over a few missing tea cakes." 

"You can't even buy them here," John grumbled. "Whisky I can replace. Tea cakes? Impossible." 

"Guess we'll have to cut recording short, go home and get you some more," Roger suggested, reaching for the box of tea cakes. Or, at least, he attempted to. John snatched the box from his reach, clutching the cakes close to his chest. 

"I have a feeling Miami would protest." John, still holding onto the box, shuffled over to the fridge so as to pour himself a glass of milk. With a skeptical glare over his shoulder, he headed to the cabinet over the sink and pulled down a roll of digestives, chucking them over onto the table. "Feel free to finish those. I can't stand them." 

Roger frowned sadly, "They don't taste as good given as when stolen." 

"Boo hoo," John teased dryly, plopping into his own seat and unwrapping his own little cake. "You shouldn't steal, anyway." 

Roger hummed thoughtfully, "I could have sworn you're supposed to be nice to the sick and injured." 

"Not when the sick and injured can, and will, finish off my tea cakes that I paid for." 

"What ever happened to 'what's mine is yours'?"

"Fancy talk coming from the man who once threatened to quit when he discovered Freddie had eaten the last of the Chinese take away," John countered with pursed lips. 

"Oh, c'mon! I'd written my name on the carton, and he fucking ate it anyways! The last of the mu shu pork—I spent my last fiver on that!" Roger exclaimed. 

"Precisely," John sniffed. "I brought these over from England, I'll be the only one eating them, thank you very much." 

Roger eyed the box carefully, "Y'know, I'm rather impressed. Normally you'd have finished a whole box by now. How'd you manage to control yourself enough to leave the rest?" 

He was delighted to watch a rosy blush creep down John's neck. "There, um, might have been a few other boxes," John confessed with a cough. Scowling over Roger's burst of laughter, he added: "In my defense, I've been under quite a bit of pressure and you _know_ I'm a stress eater!" 

"Should I hide the rest of the snacks?" Roger teased, reaching for the box of custard cremes. "Or maybe put a lock on the refrigerator?" 

"Watch me smother you while you sleep, and then we'll see who has the last laugh," John muttered darkly. Roger laughed around a biscuit, spraying crumbs across the table, much to John's begrudging amusement. Falling back into an easy silence, Roger watched John from beneath his lashes, prying open a biscuit and slowly lapping the cream from one half. John hurriedly looked away, staring out the darkened window towards the back garden. A moment, and then he took a deep breath. 

"So, you ready to tell me what has you up at two in the morning raiding my biscuit trove?" John asked carefully, unwrapping another cake and beginning to pick off the hardened chocolate cover. Roger looked away.

"S'nothing." 

"Tell that to my missing custard cremes. Spill, Taylor." 

Roger opened another cookie, this time, he was too rough, and the half without the cream cracked in his hands, crumbling onto the table cloth, "S'just...what if I'm shit." 

"Shit at what?" 

"Shit at drumming. I, I can't. I'm...I'm still on rest and my arm's broken. On top of that bullshit, I don't know two whole albums worth of songs, or whatever we've all been doing since December. For all I know, the label's threatening to kick me off, and I just...I can't go back to the studio only to be turned away. I _can't_."

"I'd never let that happen, Rog, you have to know that. There's no chance in hell that we're ever going to kick you out of the band, or reject you, all because you're still healing. You're the heart of the band—without you, there is no Queen. There's no chance in hell we're ever letting you go, and even if you wanted to, I'd be coming with you. So stop worrying about something that'll never happen." 

Roger ducked his head, working instead on cracking open another biscuit so he wouldn't have to look at John. It was easy for him to say that now but what about in six months time? What about when the band wanted to go on tour and Roger had to relearn three albums worth of songs that he didn't know? 

"Hey," John said sharply, forcing him to look up. "I can see you're still stressing. Stop that. No matter what, you're not leaving. I won't let that happen." 

"But—"

"But nothing. You're getting your cast off in a week and a half; we'll have you back behind your drums the second it's over. As for remembering, you're the smartest man I know. You honestly think you can't learn twenty-odd songs in six months? _And_ that's if you haven't regained your memory by then— _which you will._ So stop worrying, m'kay?" 

Roger grinned, fast and cheeky, "The smartest man you know, eh? Guess I'll have something to brag about to Brian tomorrow." 

"I said what I said and I meant every word," John said primly. "Now, will it make you feel better if I look the other way so you can steal a tea cake?" 

"And who says romance is dead?" Roger teased, reaching out to filch one of the cakes from the box.

*

Roger awoke the next morning to John knocking on his door, tea in hand. 

"Morning," John whispered, coming over to settle the mug down on his bedside table. "How'd you sleep?"

"Full of tea cakes," Roger yawned with a long stretch. "What time's it?" 

"Time to wake up," John teased, tugging back the covers. "We've got enough time for you to hop in the shower and eat before we're expected in the studio." Roger groaned, twisting in bed and attempting to pull the covers over his head. "That hasn't worked once in the whole ten years I've known you, Roger Taylor, and you know that. Get up before I throw a glass of water on you." 

"God, Deaks, you always say the sweetest things." 

With a groan, Roger rolled off the bed, scrubbing at his face with his hands. Blindly, he slapped his hand down in search of the mug, too lazy and tired to even open his eyes. 

"You're useless and without me you'd be dead, admit it," John sighed as he grabbed Roger's hand to place it on the mug.

"Every day of my life, dear." Roger covered up his embarrassment at the pet name by taking a big swig of his tea. It was perfect, like always. John had added the exact sugar to milk ratio, just as he liked it. 

"The longer you spend putting off a shower the less time you have for breakfast," John warned. "And I'm making blueberry pancakes, so get to it." 

It took Roger a bit to wrap his cast in clingfilm, but once it was secure he jumped into the shower, relaxing the moment the hot water hit his aching shoulders. There was a bit of a struggle to wash his hair one handed, and not for the first time Roger found himself wishing for the damned cast to be off. The rest of his injuries—his face, his ribs, his leg—had all healed, as had the bruises. The last physically visible reminder of any accident even happening at all was the thrice damned cast. The moment it was removed, he vowed, he was going to set it on fire and scatter the ashes into a rubbish heap. If it weren't for his lost memories and the post-concussion symptoms, few would have known that Roger had ever even been in an accident. 

Under the heat of the water Roger found his hand twitching down to his cock, which was growing hard. It wasn't really his fault; after he'd gone back to sleep following his and John's midnight snacks, he'd found himself dreaming again of John. John, curled over him in bed, his hands tight on Roger's hips as he'd thrust deep into him. John, who'd pulled Roger's head back with a bruising kiss to his lips. John, who grunted out that he loved him when he came, bucking wildly before snaking a hand down to tug Roger off. 

There was little needed to convince Roger that John would be great in bed. The man was a fantastic dancer, after all, and had the hips to prove it. Plus, they'd lived together following the disastrous break up with Ronnie, and Roger had been the unfortunate roommate left lying awake at night listening as John slowly but surely took his partner apart. It was always fun to watch the lucky lady limp out the front door the following morning, sent home with a kiss and, occasionally, a tap on the bum to really get her moving. 

No, it wasn't that he thought John would be bad. In fact, quite the opposite. The problem was that Roger shouldn't have been dreaming about John to begin with. Ever since John had gone back to work, the frequency of dreams had only increased. It seemed like every morning Roger was waking up to add another dream about John in his journal; John and him entwined in bed, or cooking together in the kitchen, or even just cuddling on the couch. The more John did for him, the more he dreamt, and the harder it was to separate fantasy from reality. 

Just the other morning, Roger had found himself bending over to press a kiss to John's mouth. It was only when he was halfway there did he catch his mistake, which he quickly covered by announcing that John'd had an eyelash on his cheek. And, the night before that, he had fallen asleep curled up against John's shoulder the couch. When he woke, it had felt only natural to snuggle in closer, his hand falling to John's inseam as sleep beckoned him under once more. He'd woken up in the morning still on the couch, a blanket draped over his shoulders, but John suspiciously missing. 

There wasn't anyone that he could talk to about these, these, _feelings_. John was obviously the wrong answer, and Crystal, while loyal to a fault and willing to answer any questions, had always been uncomfortable talking about Roger's previous conquests and relationships. Plus, what with him and John being the only two people he genuinely trusted to take care of him, he didn't want to alienate either of them by pushing forward something that was nothing more than a weird and convoluted fantasy. 

He'd tried making an offhand comment about his sexuality to Brian the last time he had been over for dinner, when they had both been left alone in the living room while John cooked and Freddie supervised. He couldn't ask Freddie. Freddie was like a dog with a bone and had a distinct and horrid inability to keep anything secret. One word to him about dreaming about John fingering Roger until he cried and Freddie would immediately be fleeing to John in sheer delight. The obvious choice was Brian, who'd known him the longest and was practically the Fort Knox of secrets. He'd have to be, after all, what with all the extra-marital affairs he'd been having, and with his whole Boy Scout-esque belief in friendship and loyalty. Brian, however, had flushed red and stuttered out something completely off topic, forcing Roger to drop the conversation lest Brian had a stroke. Clearly, whatever feelings he might have developed for John were new, unknown, and unmentionable. 

So he kept them to himself, and to his diary, which, after a very awkward conversation regarding wet dreams, Dominique, and a flare up, John had sworn to never, ever open again. Not even Dr. Müller was privy to his journal. Yes, the dreams and the feelings were Roger's and Roger's alone. Well, Roger and his dream version of John.

Roger sighed, resting his forehead against the tile as he tugged all the more harder on his cock, savoring the image of John laying between his thighs, eyes dark and heavy as he licked into him, his fingers twisting cruelly. John would tease him, draw out the orgasm until Roger was practically begging for release, his voice high and raspy as he twitched, shook, and shivered into the aftermath, his vision hazy and muted with the release. John would then crawl up so as to pant into his mouth, their lips barely touching but their breath mingling as he got himself off, letting out a stuttered groan as Roger would bat away his hand, replacing it with his own. And then, right when it seemed like they couldn't last any longer, John would moan out his name and—

"Roger!" John bellowed, knocking on the door hard. "Get out here or we'll be late!"

Roger startled and almost slipped, grabbing at the curtain and the wall for purchase. He had been so _close_ , right on the edge of an orgasm, when John had interrupted. Any further hope of continuing was ruined; knowing John, if he didn’t hear the water cut off, he’d come in and do it himself, whether or not Roger was en flagrante. Groaning, he thumped his head against the tile before reaching to turn off the water, stumbling into the cold. With a pitying glance down at his rapidly softening cock, Roger snatched the towel off the back of the door and began to dry off. 

Ten minutes later, he was dressed and dried, sitting at the kitchen table and glaring at John's tauntingly pert ass while he made the aforementioned blueberry pancakes. 

"I think today we're gonna work on Fred's song," John said, oblivious to the fact that he'd ruined Roger's perfectly good orgasm. "Thank god. I just know that if we threw you in there when it was one of Brian's, I'd be driving you to the hospital with a flare up within seconds. The man is incapable of keeping his mouth shut." 

"I know," Roger grunted, shoving a handful of berries into his mouth. 

"Honestly, this whole process has been absolutely barbaric. I've been fighting him this whole time, back and forth, about what we needed and not, and well, I mean, you'll see. Or, you won't. I told them to keep themselves in check so as to not upset your head. They— _we_ —are gonna try to, erm, keep it together," John dropped two plates onto the table, collapsing onto one of the chairs with a heavy sigh. "Obviously, we'll see how it goes. But we're gonna try." 

"Alright," Roger shrugged, digging into the pancakes. He could feel the weight of John's eyes on him, and he hunched over self consciously. 

"Are you okay? You're quiet this morning." 

_Because you ruined my orgasm. Because I was having a wank thinking about you licking me out. Because I've been dreaming about you every night for the past month and every morning I have to wake and remind myself that it's not real and never will be and it's breaking my heart._

"Tired," he said around another giant piece. John frowned, but didn't say much more, choosing instead to start in on his own breakfast.

*

They arrived at the studio exactly on time, bustling themselves out of the car so as to escape as much of the cold as possible. John led him inside, greeting the various employees with a smile and a head nod, all the while keeping a firm hand on Roger's wrist. Normally, such an action would make Roger feel like nothing more than a child, and would most likely have him lashing out in anger over the indignity of being treated as such. Instead he was comforted by it. It was grounding, almost as though John was letting him know that he was there. 

"There's the bathroom," John pointed. "And there, that's the kitchenette. Don't expect anything more than crisps and coffee, but sometimes there's some left over takeaway. And finally, here's the studio." Roger stopped short, forcing John to come to a halt, turning to him with a frown. "Roger?"

"Just give me a second," he whispered, his heart pounding. "Just—"

"Of course," John soothed, coming to rest a hand on his shoulder. "D'you wanna go splash some cold water on your face? Or get a cup of water?" 

"No, no, m'fine, I just need a moment. Just one." 

"Take all the time you need."

Roger took a deep breath, closed his eyes, steadied himself, and exhaled, "Okay. I'm ready." 

John grinned as he swung open the door, "Welcome back, Rog."

The studio was just like any other studio; the sound booths were behind a large glass window, while the actual mixing desk stretched halfway across the room. There were two couches; a coffee table covered in scattered mugs and various notebooks and magazines; and surprisingly, a mini fridge. Roger took the time to look around, taking it all in, before turning to the man who was sitting at the desk. 

"Roger!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet with a broad grin so as to envelope him in a hug. "So good to see you back!" 

"Mornin' Mack," John said, more as a help to Roger than anything else. 

"Deacy, good to see you back as well. Here's hoping you both get to stay, hmm?" 

"That's the plan," Roger said with a bob of his head. "Brian and Freddie in yet?"

"Brian's in the booth, working on a piece. Freddie is late, as usually," Mack rolled his eyes. "Probably won't be in for another half hour if we're lucky. But here! Say hi to Brian!" 

Mack hurried to the desk, stabbing at a button and shouting down in the mic, "Hullo Brian! Look who's made it!" 

Roger stepped into view, raising a hand in greeting to Brian. Brian grinned broadly, immediately making to put down his old lady and rush through the door to hug him, smothering him with his curls. 

"Rog! So good to see you," Brian said, pulling back to get a good look at him. "Looking much better, I have to admit." 

"All that beauty sleep's been doing me good," Roger preened with a fluff to his hair. "But hey, don't let me interrupt you if you're working—"

"No, no, no worries," Brian stammered, cutting a side glance at John. "It's nothing, just was, erm, fooling around with a piece or two." 

John, who had collapsed onto the sofa, glared at him, "What piece, Brian?" 

Brian stiffened, unconsciously making himself stand taller, "Just a solo I'm working on, that's all." 

"For what song?" 

Roger looked between the two, lost as to where the hostility had come from. Knowing he had to act fast before a blow out could occur, Roger placed his hand on Brian's arm, drawing his attention. "Can I listen? Hear what it is?" 

Brian glanced back at John, but softened, "Sure, Rog, of course. Let me get Mack to play it back, we can all listen." 

"Ooh, is it show and tell time?" Crystal announced as he kicked open the door, sunglasses on and coffee in hand. "I love show and tell. You won't believe the things I've seen in my days. In fact—"

"Chris, what are you doing in today?" Brian interrupted, cutting him off before he could twist it into something dirty. "You're not on the schedule." 

"Last time I checked, mate, my job was to be wherever Roger is. Roger's here, so I'm here," Crystal shrugged as he threw himself down into one of the desk chairs next to Mack. Slurping at his coffee obnoxiously, he gestured towards the control panel, "Don't let me stop you." 

Glancing once more at John, Brian reached over Mack, who was steadfastly staring out the glass panel towards something in the distance, and hit for the playback. 

"— _back chat, you burn all my energy, criticizing all you see, analyzing what I say, and you always get your way_ ," Freddie crooned before it faded into a vigorous guitar solo. It was loud, and raucous, and just like every other guitar solo had ever played before. But Roger still found himself tapping his fingers to it, imagining the beat he'd play if he were able to. It finished with a long wail, echoing in the silence of the room. 

"Bloody good job," Roger praised, reaching over to clap his hand on a beaming Brian's shoulder. "That's really tight, good beat. Think it sounds great." 

"Thanks," Brian gloated as he puffed up his chest. "I think it really adds something to the song, don't you think?" 

"I—"

"Roger, for the love of all that is holy do not fucking answer that," Crystal snapped from behind him. Roger, startled, spun around, only to catch sight of John fuming on the couch, his hands balled into fists. Next to him, Crystal was glowering at Brian, having raised his shades to deepen the effect. "Brian—"

"It's a good solo," Brian interrupted. "Roger thinks so too!" 

"Roger doesn't know have the shit you've been pulling or he would have kept his mouth shut," Crystal muttered, just loud enough for Roger to hear.

"I thought," John managed to grit out through clenched teeth. "That we had agreed on not having a solo for _Back Chat_." 

" _No_ , we agreed to think about it," correct Brian as he crossed his arms. "And I thought about it, and it was missing something. So I fixed it." 

"It's my fucking song—" 

"Don't think I don't know it's about me—"

"—and I say _no!_ " John snarled. "I wish I could say that I couldn't _believe_ that you would pull a stunt like this, but then again you always surprise me with how low you're willing to go." 

"Oh, that's real rich, coming from you," Brian scoffed. 

Roger quickly stepped between the two, putting his hands out placatingly. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey, guys, c'mon, calm down." 

"You haven't been here Rog," Brian snapped. "You have no idea how pretentious John's been—"

"Pretentious? That's fucking rich—"

"Hey!" Roger shouted. "Stop it! Jesus fuck, what's gotten into you arseholes? It's a goddamned solo, not the end of the world! Brian, if John said no for his song, then _no_. John, just cuz Brian's being a knobhead doesn't mean you need to rip his head off. C'mon guys." 

The two of them continued to glare at each other, but eventually, they backed down, turning away from each other. Like his strings had been cut, Roger slumped in relief, running a hand down his face. Jesus wept, if that was how the whole damn recording experience had been going, no wonder Crystal had wanted to get him drunk before even beginning to explain the whole mess. 

" _Thank_ you," Roger sighed. "Look, John mentioned something about working on one of Freddie's songs? Why don't you get started on that."

Begrudgingly, Brian and John made their way into the sound booth, both choosing opposite corners and steadfastly not looking at each other. Roger threw himself down onto the couch next to Crystal, who offered him his coffee in solidarity. 

"Three hours, forty-five minutes more," Crystal muttered. "Hang on in there." 

"God help us all," Roger sighed.

Freddie arrived thirty-five minutes later in a whirl of half apologies and cigarette smoke, begging off the proffered cup of coffee with a wave of his hand, Phoebe trailing behind him shyly. 

"None for me, darling," he simpered as he tossing himself unceremoniously next to Roger, nearly catching him with the cherry of his fag. "Still digesting breakfast." 

"Late as usual, Fred?" Roger teased, gently moving his hand away before he was either singed or burned. "Nice to see somethings never change." 

"Still maintained that wicked tongue of yours, eh, Roger?" Freddie countered, blowing smoke into his face. 

"Hey!" John yelled, rapping his knuckles on the glass, forcing them to turn towards him. His voice was muffled, barely audible through the glass, but the warning glare and pointed finger made his point clear. No smoking around Roger. Crystal steadfastly refused to even blink in his direction. 

Freddie rolled his eyes but did as he was bid, stubbing out the cigarette with a heavy sigh. 

"Honestly, you're not going to die if you inhale a little smoke," Freddie scoffed. "Might even make you feel better." 

"Nicotine is bad for brain injuries," Phoebe supplied rather unhelpfully from his corner, not even looking up from his book. "Increases blood pressure, which can cause a flare up." 

Mack, Crystal, Freddie, and Roger all turned to blink at Phoebe, who, noticing it had fallen silent, glanced up from the book and blanched. 

"Did...did you research that?" Crystal asked carefully as Phoebe flushed in embarrassment. 

"I read it! In the hospital, when we were waiting for him to wake up!" Phoebe said in defense, wringing his hands. "Freddie asked me to find out everything I could, and I did!" 

A little part of Roger was actually touched by the gesture, and he said as much, watching as Phoebe relaxed, smiling in return. 

"Now that we've settled how Phoebe is actually in love with Roger," Crystal drawled. "Can we start working? I didn't get out of bed this morning just to watch those two divas fight over who should be prom queen."

"There's only one prom queen, and that's me," Freddie said with a theatrical wink. "And, Crystal, might I remind you that you're not even due in the studio today? You came here by choice." 

"And I'm regretting it with every second that passes. Now, _Body Language_? Or _Staying Power_?" 

"Why don't you play Roger's song for him?" Mack offered, turning away from where he was listening to Brian angrily strum in John's direction. Both Crystal and Roger stiffened, remembering the last disastrous attempt to have Roger listen to his work. 

"Oh, no," Roger said quickly. "We don't have to do that, I don't want to derail the whole session—"

"Nonsense, that's a _wonderful_ idea!" Freddie bullied his way to the mixing table, sidestepping Crystal's well placed foot in favor of the microphone. "John, Brian, get in here! Roger wants to listen to _Action This Day_!" 

Roger shrunk down in his seat, his shoulders coming up to his ears as he tried to disappear. Next to Freddie, Crystal steadfastly attempted to block him from the drawer of tapes, scooting his chair this way and that in an attempt to stop him. It failed, however, with a sharp jab to the ribs that had him falling over, releasing the drawer. 

Meanwhile, Brian and John were having a sort of game of chicken wherein neither wanted to be the last to leave the sound booth. It ended in what could only be referred to as a tie, wherein the two of them squeezed side by side through the door, miraculously not touching the other as they did so. Brian made to sit next to Roger, but was hip-checked out of the way by an unapologetic John who didn't even attempt to look sorry. 

"It's a really good song," John informed Roger as he ignored Brian's scowl. "Really good. You'll like it." 

"Yeah, Rog," Brian added as he settled down opposite Phoebe. "It's got a good rock'n'roll sound to it." 

Roger could practically hear John's teeth grinding as he physically bit back his remark. 

"I'm sure I'll love it," he said weakly, shrinking even further as Crystal attempted to speak to him through his eyes. 

"Here we go, Roger, _Action This Day_ , fully finished and ready for the charts!" Freddie sang, grinning almost maniacally as he pressed play. 

The only thing worse than hearing a song that you wrote and cannot remember is having an audience watch you while you hear it for the first time. Roger didn't know what to do, or how to look, as they all stared at him. He felt rather like an animal in the zoo, being inspected and watched while he ate, breathed, shit, and lived. His chest felt tight in panic; he barely even heard the damn song over the nervous roaring in his ears. 

Crystal was the only one who wasn't looking at him like a prime rib amongst shipwrecked men. Having snatched Phoebe's book out of his hands, he made a show of reading, giving Roger at least the slightest amount of privacy while his old live was dissected and presented before him unwillingly. 

When the tape rolled to an end, the room stayed in silence, focus still on Roger. 

"Well?" Brian prompted, leaning forward on his forearms. "What did you think?" 

_How the fuck do I know?_ Roger thought bitterly. _Do you think I was actually listening? Did anyone think that that was actually a good idea, to have me listen to something I can't remember making without any preparation or even thought for my feelings? I couldn't even listen to the damned thing._

"S'good," Roger lied with a bob of his head. "It's no _I'm In Love With My Car_ , but still has potential." 

"Oh god, of all things to still remember it's that song," Freddie laughed, shaking his head. "C'mere, lemme give you another wallop and see if that gets shaken loose." 

He stood as though he were actually going to hit him, his arm raised theatrically. In quick succession, John and Brian flinched; John throwing himself in front of Roger, while Brian moved to grab Freddie's arm. For two people who were so steadfastly ready to murder each other not even ten minutes before, they certainly knew how to work together when Roger's life was supposedly on the line. 

"Not funny!" Brian admonished, still holding onto Freddie tightly, while John, vibrating with tension, stayed perched before Roger. 

Freddie blinked, his voice twisted with hurt and shame, "It was a joke! You—you know I'd never!" 

"I know, Freddie," Roger said softly, gently placing his hand on John's chest and pushing him back into his seat. "Obviously you'd never. They just don't know how to take a joke like we do." 

"I wouldn't," Freddie repeated, that heartbroken look still in his eyes. 

"I _know_ ," Roger said. Thinking quickly of how to diffuse the situation, he put on a cocky smirk. "Plus, doesn't matter if I ever forget _I'm In Love With My Car_ , seeing as we put it as BoRhap's b-side. Whether or not you hate it, the public —and my royalty check—certainly didn't." 

It had the desired effect of breaking the tension; next to him John relaxed in his seat, although he stayed just as close to Roger, their legs pressed tight to each other, sharing each other's warmth.

*

_Roger laid between their legs, his head resting on their stomach. Above him, they were humming along with the radio, their voice soft in the quiet of the night, their chest rumbling with each note. With his ear pressed to the warm expanse of their belly, Roger could hear their heartbeat keeping time, and he matched the beat on their thigh, tapping his fingers with each pulse._

_“That tickles,” they laughed from above him. Roger twisted his head so he could blow a raspberry right over their belly button, grinning and twisting as their hips bucked up, trying to dislodge him. “You’re such a brat, stop that!”_

_“Never,” Roger huffed, continuing to blow raspberries until their hands pushed at his head. Roger merely grabbed their wrists in his own, using his own chest to push their hips down. “I can’t stop, not when you taste so sweet.”_

_“I hate you!”_

_“No you don’t,” Roger grinned, still holding their wrists as he crawled up their torso, blowing raspberries the whole way until he came to a stop, his lips brushing against theirs in a mockery of a kiss. “You love me.”_

_“I don’t know why,” John murmured, “but I do.”_

*

Recording was turning into a nightmare. In the following weeks, when Brian and John weren't trying to rip each other's heads off, Freddie was filling the airspace by overcompensating Roger's opinion. Anything from where to order lunch from, to the title of a newest song, to even whether or not they should keep Brian's fifty-seven second long guitar solo in, was met with Freddie's inquisitive glance and pushy attitude. Roger's opinion suddenly became the _only_ opinion as far as Freddie was concerned, and the pressure was mounting. In the haste to make Roger feel included, they were instead making him feel as though he were only being humored. 

"Darling, of course I want to know what you think," Freddie insisted, trapping him in the recording booth while he sat at his piano. 

"Honestly, Freddie, it sounds great," Roger said, desperately trying to catch Crystal or John's eye through the glass. "You know it sounds nice, you don't need to hear my opinion on every single note." 

"But Roger, you're our mascot!" Freddie cried dramatically. "Our cheerleader! How will we know if we're doing a good job if our own little mascot won't tell us?" 

Roger stiffened, his hands fisting at his sides. The mascot. Of course, he wasn't a full member just yet, he was just side-linded guy, stuck without a memory and a broken hand. Unable to properly participate. 

"You've lasted this long," Roger said quietly, trying very hard not to let his voice waver or break. "Honestly, you'll be fine." 

"John!" Freddie bellowed, finally looking away from Roger and allowing him to escape. "John, knock some sense into Roger! He won't tell me what he thinks!" 

"Roger can do what he wants," John drawled, voice staticky through the speakers as Roger fled the recording booth. "Don't listen to him," John added once Roger had swung the door shut. 

"I'm not," Roger muttered with a shake of his head. "I'm getting a cup of coffee." 

"We've run out of decaf," Mack supplied unhelpfully. "Brian drank the last of it." 

John whirled towards Brian, fury in his eyes, "Are you joking? Brian, we bought that for Roger! He can't drink caffeine, you _know_ this!" 

"I thought we had another bag," Brian snapped. "He's not going to die without a cup, _and_ I was here all night cleaning up the tracks while you were at home!" 

"You know that I have to be there for Roger, don't you dare throw that in my face," snarled John. 

Roger, completely fed up with the bickering, stormed from the room towards the kitchen, his face hot and tight with fury. It felt like when he was a child and his parents would get into screaming arguments in the kitchen late at night. At first, when he was younger, they would hide it from him, but as he grew older, they stopped pussyfooting around their issues; even the smallest thing setting them off. This was no different. 

"It'll get better," Crystal sighed, causing Roger to jump in surprise. He hadn't even noticed him follow him from the room, he was so deep in his own thoughts. "Once you get the cast off, you'll be able to start putting together your own drum lines and they'll calm down." 

"I'll believe it when I see it," Roger muttered darkly. "I don't even have any fucking coffee to drink to cover up this bullshit." 

Crystal sighed once more before clapping him on the shoulder with one warm hand, "C'mon. Let's get you a smoke break." 

They hid themselves in the back alleyway, tucked away behind a large dumpster and cardboard boxes. Anxiously, they passed the fag back and forth between each other, not speaking. Roger was tired. Tired of being sick, tired of not knowing what was going on, tired of being treated like he was made of glass. He wanted things to go back to the way they were, before. Though whether he wished for seventy-seven or December of eighty-one, he didn't know. Anything before now. 

"Maybe it'll help if you try writing something," Crystal offered, exhaling smoke sharply before passing the cigarette back to Roger. "Doesn't have to be something good. Just has to be something they won't pester you over." 

"If you think for one second Freddie won't pester me if he catches me writing, you're an idiot," Roger grumbled. 

"Maybe so. But it's better than sitting on the couch feeling sorry for yourself," Crystal shrugged, snatching it back. It burned down to the filter, ember extinguishing in the last of the March bluster. Stamping it out with his boot, Crystal paused before reaching for the pack again, "I think you've earned a second one." 

"See," Roger sighed, reaching up to rub at his eye. "This is what I mean. I can't even decide if I want a second ciggie or not, it's made for me." 

"Do you _not_ want a second one?" 

"No, I do, I just—I want to be the one to decide. Alright?" 

Crystal nodded, passing both fag and matchbox over, "Alright. You decide next time. Sorry." 

"No need to apologize," Roger said around the butt in his mouth. The flame was bright and warm in his hand, and he closed his eyes against it. "Out of everyone, it's almost like you're the only one who gets it." 

There was a moment wherein Crystal didn't say anything, until—"Did I ever tell you I played rugby as a kid?" 

Roger huffed out the smoke, squinting at him out of the corner of his eye, "Didja now?" 

"Yup," Crystal nodded, stealing the smoke for a quick breath. "Played until I was sixteen. Thought I was gonna go all the way, too. One day, got knocked around a bit too much, ended up bouncing my head off a post. Doctor's told me to be careful, not to play until I was fully healed. Well, I wanted to get back in the game, and who cared if I still had a flare up every now and again? Not me. So I went back too soon, and not even ten minutes in, _wham!_ Got taken out again. And that was that. No more rugby." 

Roger shifted uncomfortably, unable to think of what to say, "Chris—"

"Oh no, Taylor," Crystal laughed deprecatingly. "Don't want your pity. 'Sides, I don't feel bad for myself at all, cuz I wouldn't trade my life for a second. I'm not telling you this so you feel sorry for me, or anything of the like. Just thought you should know that you're not exactly alone in this, okay? And that you _will_ get better. I did, you will. Okay?" 

Sniffing, Roger ducked his head. They didn't say anything else, there was no need. Just two friends, sharing a cigarette and memories, nothing else.

*

Later that night, Roger waited until they were sat over dinner, picking at some vegetarian loaf Brian had made for them. Roger would rather have died then admit that it was even edible, but Brian had pressed it into his hands after practice, prattling on about how it was full of vitamins that would help him heal, and he hadn't had the heart to chuck it in the bin. It'd taken him thirty whole minutes to convince John to try it, and another ten afterwards to convince him to be nice and lie over how it was when they saw him next. 

"I'm thinking of trying my hand at songwriting," Roger announced, putting his fork down with a grimace when he dug a chunk of Brussels sprout out of his piece. John, who was faring just as well as Roger was, looked up in joy. 

"That's wonderful!" he beamed. "I think Freddie's held onto your songbook, I'll ring him after dinner and ask him to bring it 'round, see if there's something in there you want to finish." 

Roger flinched, turning to mash the soggy sprout with his fork instead. "Actually," he said carefully. "I was thinking of just...starting fresh." 

"Oh?"

"Yeah, erm, don't want to get any of the creative juices mixed, would rather just start over. Brand new brain, new memories. Might be better." 

"If you're sure—"

"Yeah, yeah, no, think it might be better. Overall. For me." 

"Okay, Rog. Whatever you feel best." 

Roger risked a peek at John, content to find nothing but disgust for the meal on his face, no anger, or awkwardness. 

"Please tell me we can give up pretending to eat this and just order a pizza," John finally sighed, throwing in his napkin. "What did he put in this, tree bark and dirt?" 

"That would have been more edible," Roger laughed, mimicking John and getting to his feet for the phone. "I pity Chrissie and the kids if they're eating this shit every night. Sausage and onion?" 

"Man after my own heart," John joked as he started clearing the table. Roger preened, feeling the tips of his ears burn as he butchered his way through ordering a large pie.

*

His cast came off two days later. Freddie and Brian insisted on coming too, not wanting to miss such a momentous moment in Queen history. The four of them trooped into the doctor's office, drawing stares and whispers from the various Germans who recognized them. However, when the nurse called his name, only John was allowed back with him, much to Freddie's displeasure. 

"Behave," John warned over his shoulder as he followed Roger back. Roger, who was too busy sweating over the thought of a saw going anywhere near his arm, ignored their indignant cries. 

"Shit," he muttered as he hopped up onto the doctor's bench. "Deaks, what if—what if they cut off my arm?" 

"They won't." 

"What if it's still broken?"

"It's not." 

"What if—"

"I'm going to stop you right there," John sighed, reaching over to tug his left hand from where he'd craddled it against his chest. "It's not still broken, the x-rays proved that. They're not going to cut off your arm, either, they have special tools to prevent that now. Your hand still works, you can wiggle your fingers, I know you can feel it because you spent twenty minutes last week harassing me into trying to help you itch it under the cast, and everything is going to be okay. Okay?" 

Roger swallowed thickly, anxiety still trapped in his throat, "Okay." 

John watched him carefully, "Do you want me to hold your hand?" 

"Christ, Deacy," Roger snarled. "I'm not a fucking child! I don't need you to hold my hand!" 

"I didn't ask if you needed me too, I asked if you wanted me too. Do you want me to?" John said measuredly, not even flinching. 

Roger paused, then, "Please?" 

He emerged twenty minutes later, cast-less and staring down at his left wrist, which, after two months of being covered up by plaster and gauze, looked too pale and almost naked under the harsh hospital lightings. John, true to his word, held his hand the whole while, distracting him with talk about Roger's new song; where they would go for dinner; and a rousing tale about the summer he once spent with his ankle broken, stuck in bed with Great Aunt Susan reading the whole _Narnia_ series to him. It was comforting, and Roger ached to hear more by the time the doctor announced he was finished. 

"Look at you!" Freddie announced, loud in the waiting room. "Your arm! Christ, Rog, we'll have to take you on vacation somewhere sunny, put some color back into it." 

"It's dreadful, isn't it," Roger grimaced, staring at it. 

"Don't you fret, we'll get you on a beach somewhere and have you looking golden and tan in no time," Freddie assured him, yanking on his arm to inspect it. "All this fret over something so small. Now that we have your arm back, does that mean we can put you back behind your kit?" 

Roger and John exchanged a quick glance. "I asked," Roger said carefully. "He told me that I was cleared to be left on my own, for caffeinated drinks, and a maximum of three cigarettes, but not drumming. I do get longer hours in the studio, but they want me to have another CAT scan before they agree to anything else." 

Freddie opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by Brian, "That's still wonderful, Rog! We'll have to celebrate, shall we go for a coffee?" 

"Actually," John said. "Roger and I were going to go for currywurst." 

"Sounds delicious!" Freddie beamed, tossing an arm around Roger's shoulder as he completely sidestepped the realization that it was for just the two of them. They had a tradition, after each doctor's appointment, good news or bad, they went out for food. "I know the best little place, you'll love it. And Brian, I'm sure there's something we can get you, too! Maybe just potatoes, but still, that's better than nothing, right?" 

Helpless, Roger looked back over his shoulder towards John as Freddie led him away, still rattling on about the stand. Standing alone, John watched the two of them, an unreadable expression on his face, before he shook himself awake and into motion, dutifully trailing after them.

*

Despite having full use of his hand once more, things in the studio continued to decline. Roger had taken to hiding from the rest of them, curling up in a spare room or office with his notebook, struggling to come up with anything that could pass as a song. Roger would never be so bold or even vain enough to admit that songwriting had always come easy to him, but he had never struggled to the same extent that he was struggling now. The words wouldn't seem to come, and those that did made no sense. Most of his 'sessions'—if they could even be called that—had him napping or doodling in his notebook. Occasionally, Crystal would come spend time with him, the two of them sneaking more than his allotted three cigarettes and bitching about the others. 

A small part of him hoped that the other three would have forgotten about his foray back into the world of songwriting, but he should have known better. 

One morning, Freddie burst into his hidden room, catching him guitar in hand, trying out something that might work with a bit that he'd half finished. 

"What's this?" Freddie smirked, quirking up an eyebrow. "It sounds good!" 

"It's not done," Roger blurted out. He dove for his notebook, but wasn't fast enough. Freddie snatched it off of the table, dancing just out of reach while he read over the scrambled lyrics. He sucked in a deep breath, turning to look at him with wide eyes. 

"Darling, what do you mean? It's perfect!" Freddie cried. " _Some sleepless nights in wait for you, some foreign presence you feel, comes seeping through, some stream of hope_ —has Deacy read this?" 

"No," Roger said through gritted teeth, trying to snatch it back from Freddie. "And he won't." 

"No, no, no, he must! Deacy!" Freddie bellowed, rushing from the room, Roger fast on his heels. "Deacy, you have to read this! Roger's written the most brilliant song!" 

"Freddie, no!" 

Together, they tumbled into the studio, Roger almost tripping over Freddie and going barreling onto Brian, who had been seated over by the door, guitar in hand. Freddie, despite Roger's foot to the back of the knee, merely rolled back off the ground and onto his feet, neatly depositing the notebook to Deacy. 

"Jesus, Roger, be more careful!" Brian yelped, steadying him from where he was now half hanging over Brian's legs, twisted uncomfortably and spitting mad like a wet cat. 

"Don't," Roger said, though whether to Brian or John, who was reading the lyrics with an air of confusion. 

"Did you write this?" John asked softly. Roger scowled as he was finally righted, Brian's hands smoothing down his shirt before he knocked them away. 

"It's not finished," he explained. "That's why its such shit—"

"No, it's wonderful," John said, his voice tight and high. Roger finally looked at him, confused. John looked as though he had swallowed something wrong and it was trapped in his throat. 

"Are...are you okay?" he asked carefully. 

"No, no, I'm fine," John waved him off, clearing his throat. "It's really good, Roger. Really, really good." 

"It's a love song," Freddie told Brian unhelpfully. "A very _good_ love song." 

"I wouldn't go that far," Roger cringed. "It's just something stupid—"

"I love it," John said. "We should record it today." 

Even Freddie seemed taken aback, turning towards John with an incredulous look. "Now?" 

"Yes, right now. C'mon, let's get started. Mack?" 

"Got it," Mack said, reaching for more tape. John clapped his hands, hustling Freddie and Brian into the booth before turning back to Roger, a soft expression on his face. 

"Honestly," John said, voice still thick. "It's wonderful." 

"O...kay," Roger nodded. "Erm, thanks." 

It seemed like there was something else John wanted to say, but he ignored it in favor of turning back to the booth. 

"You let us know how you want it, alright?" he instructed. "I'll make sure we do it, just as you like." 

As the door swung shut behind him, Roger turned towards Mack, confused, who shrugged.

*

Work on _Calling All Girls_ was slowly coming to a stand still. In the beginning, the three of them were eager to do what he wanted, bending to his every whim, no matter how difficult or insane. Fortunately for them, there wasn't too much needed for the song. It was simple, and repetitive, and overall, a boring sham of a pop song, nothing too unique about it. 

"It's not even good," Roger complained while he and Crystal were out in the alley smoking. "They're only fawning over it because I haven't written anything since the first song." 

"I mean, it's not _bad_?" Crystal shrugged. 

"Oh god, Chris, not you too! It's terrible, alright? John's only pushing for it because he feels bad," Roger scowled. "It's demeaning; if I weren't hurt, they never would have pushed this hard for it! Jesus, they practically killed me over _I'm In Love With My Car_ —don't even get me started on _Tenement Funster_ —but this shit gets a free pass? No one's even said anything!" 

Crystal sucked hard on his cigarette, taking the time to formulate a response, "Have you tried speak to Deacy about it?" 

"And say what, stop being so nice to me just because you feel bad?" Roger said bitterly. "He's already done so much, practically giving up his life to take care of me for nothing. He's moved me into his house, literally washed and fed me, sacrificing his time in the studio, all because I bumped my head. Throwing it in his face would just be cruel." 

"Roger," Crystal said with a little laugh. "I love you like a brother. But you're literally the dumbest man I've ever met. John doesn't give a shit about any of that, he only wants to make sure you're okay. If this really bothers you, then talk to him." 

"Easy for you to say," Roger sighed, reaching the end of his cigarette and flicking the butt away. "We better go inside. John figured out we've been sneaking extra cigarettes so he had Phoebe time how long it takes to smoke one. Ten quid says if we stay later he'll burst out here and kill us both." 

"And you actually think he's bothered taking care of you," Crystal muttered as he stalked past, holding the door for Roger. "Like I said, dumbest man I know." 

Roger followed him back to the studio, falling onto his reserved spot on the couch. John was bent over his notebook, scribbling away at something, while Brian sat kitty-corner to him, Red Special in hand. He was strumming the same three chords over and over, the tiny uptick in the corners of his mouth each time John twitched in frustration the only sign that he was acting on purpose. Freddie, meanwhile, had cornered Mack and was demanding something of him that was only serving to deepen Mack's frown. 

Sighing, Roger tugged a copy of _Rolling Stone_ free from the pile on the coffee table and flicked it open, thumbing mindlessly through the pages. Brian strummed louder, the chords progressing into a run through of his solo from _Back Chat_. It took John a moment to recognize what he was playing, but once he did, he sat upright, slamming his pen down onto his notebook with a curse. 

"Do you mind?" he snarled, staring daggers at Brian's head. 

Brian immediately played the victim, holding up his hands in surrender, "What? I'm not doing anything!" 

"You're playing so fucking loud when I'm trying to work!" 

"John, if you have a problem with me practicing, you can always leave the room," Brian said lightly. "Don't be so sensitive." 

"Children," Freddie called from the corner. "Behave, or I'll tell your father." 

"This is ridiculous, I've done nothing," Brian said. 

"Exactly! You've done nothing but bitch about everything! God forbid we don't do something _exactly_ as Brian May demands!" John shouted, jumping to his feet. Brian, incensed, copied him, striding across the room to tower over John in anger. Roger had an uneasy feeling that things were about to explode. 

"What the fuck does that mean? Are you saying I'm not pulling my weight?" 

"You said it, not me," John huffed with a roll of his eyes. "You've fought us at every step—"

"All I've done is give me opinion—"

"Not that we've ever even asked for it—"

"—You're the one who's demanding a whole new sound! What we had was good, and you had to come in and cock it all up—" 

"We're trying something new! And you didn't have a problem with the new sound when _Another One Bites The Dust_ was topping all the charts, did you?" John sneered. "What bothers you more, Brian? That the times are changing or that you're wrong?" 

"You are the _only one_ who even likes this shit you call music, John, and you're dragging the rest of us down with you!" Brian shouted, getting into John's face. "When this album flops, it will be your fault!" 

"Brian!" Roger yelled, finally finding his voice at the sight of John's knuckles blanched from the force of his fists. "What the hell are you doing?" 

"Oh, come off it, Roger," Brian sneered. "You _know_ you hate this kind of music!" 

"Actually, Brian, I don't," Roger said, his voice quiet in the aftermath of the fight. Brian flinched, the fight leaving him as soon as he realized what he said. 

"Roger—"

"No, shut up. I don't know if I hate this music, I don't know anything, okay? But what I do know is that the both of you are being colossal dicks, and I'm fucking over it. This is _insane!_ No one is getting anything done, all you assholes do is fight, and frankly, I'm over it. Both of you, either grow up, or get out, because I'm over it," Roger shouted, finally losing his temper. Both of them, he was surprised to see, were cowed, shrinking within themselves in shame. "Walk it off. Get a drink, get a coffee, smoke a fag, hell, jerk one off if you have to! But get the fuck over yourselves because I'm not coming back if you're just going to act like children."

"Roger—"

"I'm serious. Both of you, take a walk," Roger demanded, pointed towards the door. 

There was a moment when Roger thought that they would ignore him, but both of them sighed before walking towards the door, steadfastly refusing to look at anyone as they slunk out the door. 

"Told you not to make me tell your father," Freddie snickered as they past, delight evident on his face. 

"You too," Roger snapped. "If you're gonna be a dick, you get the boot as well!" 

"But Roger—!"

"Out!" 

Freddie flounced off in a huff, muttering under his breath. Behind him, the door slammed shut, finally leaving the studio in peace. Sighing, Roger ran a hand down his face, suddenly exhausted. 

"I've missed you, Rog," Mack said gratefully. 

"Yeah, yeah, we'll see how long that lasts," Roger muttered. "Crystal, go make sure they don't kill each other in the car park?" 

"You know I love when you get all dominant," he leered, slowly unfolding to stand with a stretch. "If I'm not back in five minutes, assume John stabbed me, or Brian's strangled me. Either way, avenge me." 

Roger nodded his head towards the door, "Mack, if you want to go grab a coffee, now's your chance." 

"Ta, mate." 

Roger was left alone in the studio. It was quiet, a rarity after the noise and chaos of the past few weeks. Taking advantage of not being watched, or bothered, stuck listening to Brian and John snipe at each other, Roger made his way to his drum kit. Despite him not being cleared to play yet, it was still set up just the way he liked, waiting for the moment he would be back in its seat. Running his finger over a cymbal, he twinged one of the snares, listening to it sing. He missed his kit, missed the power he felt behind it, the way he literally played out his heart to a crowd of cheering fans. Eyeing the door, he figured he had at least five minutes to give it a go. 

Settling onto his stool, he spun one of his drum sticks, savoring the feel of finally being back where belonged. Taking a deep breath, he counted out the beats in his head before diving straight into the beat he'd had stuck in his head all week. It felt like flying, like coming home, like diving into a perfectly made bed. Roger couldn't have kept the grin off his face even if he'd tried; he was meant to be behind his kit. He was so engrossed with playing that he didn't notice the others had returned until Freddie shouted out over the studio microphone.

" _Roger!_ " 

With a curse, the drumstick skittered off the drum, clattering uselessly to the floor as Roger jumped, startled by Freddie's voice cutting in loud over the din of his music. Freddie, John, Brian, Crystal, and Mack were all staring at him through the window, various dumbfounded expressions on their faces. Roger hunched in his seat, raising his hands in surrender. 

"Okay, okay," he said cautiously, angling himself towards the mic. "I know I'm not cleared for playing, but I had this idea, alright? And I figured a little bit won't hurt—"

"Do it again," Freddie demanded, leaning into the mic. Next to him, John slapped at his shoulder and hissed something Roger couldn't hear. Brian, too, gestured wildly at Roger before scowling. 

"Look—"

" _Again_. Please." 

Wearily, he picked up the fallen stick and counted out the beats before throwing himself headfirst back into the same rhythm as before. It was simple, a quick little beat with gratuitous hi-tops and cymbals. Playful, almost. He could almost hear the bass in his head, thick and dirty, powerful almost, and as he rolled into a little bit of a solo of his own, he could imagine John strumming the hell out of his strings. Rolling his sticks hard against his kit, he ignored the twinge in his right wrist as he tapped out the rhythm. He was so engrossed in playing, that he didn't notice Freddie had left the control room until he was almost halfway on him.

Immediately dropping his sticks, he stumbled quickly out from behind the kit towards Freddie, who was coming closer with that same unreadable look on his face. 

"Look, Fred, it's just an idea—" Roger said as he raised his hands. Freddie, however, completely ignored him, stepping right into his space.

Grabbing him round the shoulders, he dipped him backwards, and planted a firm and dirty kiss on him. Roger struggled at first, shocked by the action, but Freddie help him all the more tighter while pressing his mouth harder against' Roger's, who squeaked into the kiss, flailing slightly before laughing. Dimly in the back of his mind, Roger took note of the fact that Freddie's mustache tickled. Freddie took advantage of his open mouth to slip him a little tongue playfully before yanking him back upright, grinning broadly. 

"Freddie!" John yelped, the door banging open. "What the fuck!" 

"What the hell was that for?" Roger panted dazedly, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

" _Dragon Attack!_ " Freddie shouted, yanking Roger forward again for another smacking kiss. This time, Roger didn't even attempt to fight him off and just accepted his fate. Freddie released him shortly after, only to pull him into a bone crushingly tight hug.

"Does anyone want to explain to me what's going on?" Roger asked, looking out towards the others who had all gathered to watch him get ravished like Scarlett O'Hara by his best friend. 

"Oh, darling," Freddie cried wetly. "You've remembered!" 

It felt like ice water had been thrown on him. Shocked, he stumbled back, and would have fallen if he hadn't crashed into John, who'd come up behind him. 

"What?" he asked, ears ringing. "Remembered what?" 

"That beat, that's _Dragon Attack!_ You've remembered a song! Roger, I knew you could do it," Freddie continued, reaching out to try and tug him closer, but Roger, too shocked, stepped back and further into John. 

"How—what—are you sure?" he asked. "Are you—I just came up with that, I don't think— _are you positive?_ "

"I'd stake my life on it! I only spent eighty-one nights listening to you beat it out, I'd rather think I'd have it memorized by now," Freddie snapped almost playfully, given away by the smile on his face. "You remembered!" 

"I remembered," Roger repeated, dazed. "I—" He turned around, staring at John, who was watching him hopefully. "I remembered?" 

"You remembered," John whispered with a nod. His eyes were suspiciously wet; Roger was sure his were, too. "That was it, Rog. That's _Dragon Attack_." 

"I _remembered!_ " Roger yelped, throwing himself at John and wrapping him up tightly. John hugged him back just as hard. Roger squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face into John's shoulder and praying that it was the start of something, the first of many to return. 

"I'm so proud of you," John murmured. "So, so, _so_ proud." 

There was so much sitting on the tip of Roger's tongue, things he wanted to say and to express. His thanks, his gratitude, his feelings, his _love_ , but he couldn't find the words. Instead, he held onto him tighter, trying to let John know how he felt through his embrace. 

"Oi," said Brian. "Don't hog him!"

Roger pulled back with a scowl, annoyed at having been interrupted. John, on the other hand, carefully untangled himself from Roger before pushing him gently over to Brian, who, oblivious, pulled him into his own hug. Angrily, Roger thought to himself that it was much worse than Johns; far too boney and not nearly comforting enough.

 *

"I've remembered something," Roger informed Dr. Müller proudly. "I managed to play the whole of my part from one of our songs from our last album. No prompting, either." 

"That's wonderful news," Dr. Müller praised with her same little half smile. "You must be very proud of yourself." 

"I am. Only took me two months, but it's my first actual, real memory," Roger preened. "I'll be remembering everything in no time, just you see." 

Dr. Müller paused, and set down her pen from where she had been taking notes. For a moment, it looked as though there was something she wanted to say, but she held her tongue, glancing down at her paper instead. "Have you still been keeping the diary?" 

"Journal," Roger corrected automatically. "And yes. Every day, what I've done, what I've dreamt, and if I remember anything. Of course, this is going in there, every detail. I never want to forget again." 

"Good, good. Any progress is good progress. Continue with your journal," Dr. Müller advised. "Please, come back if there's any more memories that return." 

Roger grinned, bright and sunny, "Of course! Got to share my good news with the world. Who knows, maybe next week we'll be chatting all about the shenanigans I got up to in seventy-nine or how wonderful the Christmas of nineteen-eighty was!" 

Dr. Müller chuckled lowly, "I will look forward to it." 

When his hour was up, she led him to the door with a hand on his shoulder, still listening as he chattered on about how excited he was to have remembered more. John, as usual, was in the same armchair, his paperback forgotten as he jumped to his feet with a smile. 

"How was it?" he asked as he helped Roger into his jacket. He no longer needed the assistance after the removal of his cast, but Roger accepted it all the same. Anything to keep him close. 

"Fantastic," Roger grinned. "Told the good doctor all about _Dragon Attack_ , and it looks like I have a chance of remembering everything this time next week!" 

"Roger—" Dr. Müller warned before she was cut off by John's exuberant whoop. 

"Amazing news," John beamed. Roger opened his mouth to say more when Dr. Müller interrupted by clearing her throat. 

"John," she said carefully. " Before you leave, I'm afraid there was an issue with payment for last week's session. If we could speak, in my office? I'm sure we can clear it up." 

Frowning, John turned to face her, his brow furrowed, "Hmm? Did it not go through?" 

"There was some sort of issue. It won't take but a minute." 

Roger pulled a face, relieved that he didn't have to handle it, "I'll go sit in the car? Get out of your hair." 

John hesitated, still turned to face Dr. Müller, but eventually dug the keys out of his pocket, "If you're sure?" 

"Go on, I'm sure it'll be fast," Roger held up his hand, prompting John to toss him the keys, which he did. "See ya next week!" 

" _Tschüss_ , Roger," said Dr. Müller as she led John into her office, closing the door behind her. "We'll just be a moment." 

Skipping down the steps, Roger felt like he was seeing the world with fresh eyes. It was like there was a whole new future for him, one where he didn't have a four-year gap in his mind or an overarching fear of forgetting. A world where moving forward he would no longer be so scared of that which he didn't know, and could focus on himself, not just his memories. No more waking up at night terrified that he'd forgotten more, no more feeling like he was trying to hold water in sand, his memories leaking out no matter how hard he tried to hold on. He was _remembering_. 

Popping open the passenger door, Roger turned the key in the ignition, fiddling with the dial until he found his favorite radio station. Overridden with joy, he sang along with Joan Jett, tapping his hands against the dashboard with the beat. Yes, it was a whole new world out there, and he planned on taking it all in, every last moment. 

John returned to the car ten minutes later, just as Roger was in the middle of a very dramatic performance of _Jessie's Girl_. Roger obnoxiously pretended to play the guitar solo, leaning across the seat to sing in John's face, but froze when he caught sight of his expression. Before, John had been excited and borderline ecstatic. Now, his face was a mask of eerie calm, his entire body coiled tight like a spring on the verge of collapse. 

"John?" Roger asked carefully, reaching over to turn down the music. "Did something go wrong with the payment?" 

John grit his teeth, his jaw twitching, "Everything's fine. Just—something went wrong with the wire transfer." 

"Something must have really gone wrong if you're this pissed off," Roger commented quietly. "What happened?" 

"Nothing I can't fix," John replied, his tone even and calm. Despite his affirmation that everything was fine, John's knuckles were bruised white as he clenched the steering wheel. Roger was half afraid that the wheel would break. "Do you like Dr. Müller?" 

"What?" Roger said, startled by the non sequitur, and turning to face John. 

"Do you like her. Is she helping you? Because if she isn't, we can find someone else, someone better," John continued still in that terrifyingly calm voice. "I know you started seeing her because the hospital suggested it, but if she's not doing her job—"

"John, what the hell, where is this coming from? Is this because of the payment?" 

"No, fuck," John snapped, just for a moment, losing all pretense of control he'd had. Just as quickly as it vanished, he wrangled it back under control, breathing deeply. "No, it's not that. I just realized I'd never asked you what you thought. I figured I'd ask." 

"I like her. She's helping me." 

"Fine," John said, ending the conversation. They drove the rest of the way home in silence. 

When they finally pulled into the driveway, the car was barely in park before John was throwing himself out, stalking his way to the front door. Roger scurried behind him, frantic.

"John—"

"I need to use the toilet," John called back, kicking open the door and all but running towards the stairs, taking them two at a time towards his room. Roger could do nothing but watch him ascend to the second floor, slamming his bedroom door behind him. 

Wracking his mind as to what could have happened, Roger moved to flop down on the couch, picking up a pillow and burying his face in it. Everything had been going so well. What the hell happened in that office?

John didn't come downstairs until the sun had set. 

Roger passed the time watching shitty German television and skimming through an equally shitty paperback novel John had picked up for him from a secondhand shop. He wasn't worried about John per-say; it was typical of him to retreat when he was upset and open up when he'd finally worked through whatever was bothering him. What worried him was that he had no idea what exactly could have set him off. One minute he was just as happy as Roger was, the next he was silently fuming.

When it was clear that John wouldn't be coming down anytime soon, Roger had hauled himself off the couch and made his way into the kitchen to start on dinner. The past two months had seen John carrying the majority of the kitchen duties, but that didn't mean Roger couldn't open a tin of beans and sausage to pour over slices of toast. He might have no memory but he wasn't an idiot. Usually. 

Once again switching on the radio, he hummed along with the station's pick while he warmed up the beans, tossing in a dash of salt and pepper, followed by a dollop of hot sauce. John preferred his food to have a little kick and, well, it wasn't Roger who needed comfort food. His tastebuds could handle one night of torture if it would make John happy. 

He was just spooning the beans and sausages over slightly too toasted bread when he heard footsteps on the stairs. 

"Perfect timing," he called, not looking away from where he was making sure the portions were equal. "I've just finished making dinner. It's no roast duck or prime rib, but I think I did a solid job. Definitely edible." 

When John didn't say anything, Roger set down the sauce pan, turning with a frown. He was standing awkwardly in the doorway, dressed a lot nicer than when they had gone out, his expression unreadable and his posture tense. He'd done his hair, it was gelled nicely, curling over his ears. He was also in his nice jeans that fit like a second skin, clinging to everything almost indecently. The jumper he'd been wearing earlier had been replaced with a tight fitting white t-shirt that stretched over his shoulders, revealing just how broad they actually were. Roger felt his mouth go dry. 

"Erm," he said stupidly, eyes focused on the tightness of his sleeves over his bicep. "Uhm." 

"I'm going out," John said quickly, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "Crystal's on his way over." 

"What?" 

"Freddie's coming to pick me up, says there's a bar he wants to go to. I'm not sure what time I'll be back, probably late. Don't wait up," John rushed, unable to look anywhere near him. 

"Oh," Roger coughed, looking down at his meager dinner. "Do you—are you hungry? I've made you beans and toast. Even has the sausages, the way you like." 

John shifted in place; his jaw clenched again. "No thank you," he said stiffly. "I'll grab a bite on the way there." 

"'Course," Roger nodded, feeling rather quite small. "When is—"

Saved by the bell. John knocked his head in its direction, scurrying from the kitchen with a thumb over his shoulder. 

Roger had no idea why he felt so awful. John had every right to go out with Freddie; Roger didn't _own_ him. In fact, it was a miracle that he hadn't needed a night out before tonight. John obviously needed time to destress, get it all out of his system. Roger would be feeling the exact same way if he were in his shoes. 

Taking a deep breath, he moved both plates to the kitchen table anyways. If John wasn't going to eat it, then he'd offer it to Crystal. And if Crystal wasn't hungry, well, then Roger would have to find room in his stomach to prevent the food from going to waste. 

"Hullo, Rog," Crystal sang as he swanned through the threshold, pulling out a chair. "This for me?" 

"If you want it," Roger shrugged, picking up his own fork to dive in. "Enjoy it, it's the last time I'll ever willingly cook for you again." 

"That you know of," Crystal huffed. "I'm rather charming, I have no doubt in my ability to wrangle some food out of you eventually." 

John, meanwhile, stood in the doorway watching the two of them with careful eyes, still fidgeting. Crystal twisted in his seat, arching an eyebrow in his direction, "You wanna sit down, mate?" 

"No," John said simply. "I'm fine." 

"Suit yourself. Hey, what hot sauce did you put on this? It's killing me in the best possible way." 

Roger let Crystal's chatter wash over him while he methodically worked his way through the rest of his dinner, humming when necessary and nodding when he thought appropriate. John didn't move from his position, only turning his head to check for headlights in the driveway. Roger was just about to insist John sit down when a horn blared from the outside, startling John from his post. 

"That'll be Freddie," John called, rushing towards the coathook. "I'll be back later." 

"Have fun!" Roger shouted, trying to keep his voice steady. John was halfway out the door when Roger suddenly startled, calling out for him, drawing him back to the kitchen. 

"Yes?" John asked, his voice pinched, practically vibrating in his desire to leave. 

"Look, I just want to say," Roger exhaled, readying himself for what he was about to tell him. "If you wanted to bring a, erm, uh, _friend_ back tonight, I won't say anything. Like, I won't mind. Or bother you. So, um, feel free to bring someone back. It's your house. I won't stop you." 

Next to him, Crystal let out a long groan, covering his face with his hand. John, however, merely set his jaw harder, narrowing his eyes at Roger. He inhaled sharply, as though he wanted to say something but thought better of it, turning back towards the door and marching outside without even a second glance at Roger. 

"God, even missing half your brain you still manage to put your entire goddamn leg in your fucking mouth," Crystal snorted with a shake of his head before returning to his dinner. 

The two of them spent the night watching a rerun of _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ over a bowl of popcorn. It was overdubbed in German, which neither of them knew, so they stuck to making up the dialogue, the raunchier the better. At one point, Crystal made a comment regarding a cuckoo, rubber gloves, and a bottle of Aperol that was so absolutely filthy it had Roger choking on his laughter while he tried not to roll off the couch. It was nice not having to worry about anything, just being there with Crystal enjoying the film and each other's company. Almost normal.

By eleven thirty, Roger had thoroughly ruined his rock star reputation as he struggled to keep his eyes open, yawning into his fist periodically. Crystal, who appeared to be just as knackered as he was, managed to find the energy to flick off the telly, blinking heavily. 

"Alright," he yawned. "I think it's time for bed." 

"Sounds good," Roger slurred with a stretch. "Lemme grab you a blanket, m'kay? You can sleep on the couch." 

"I rather thought I'd get the bed, seeing as I'm the guest," Crystal huffed, rolling up to a sitting position to rub at his eye. "Or," he leered, "we could always cuddle." 

Roger snorted a laugh with a shake of his head, "Hmm, gonna have to say no to that one, mate. You're not my type." 

"Trust me, I'm well aware of your type. Brunette, leggy, and an ass you could bounce a sixpence off," Crystal rolled his eyes. For the briefest of moments, John flashed in his mind, long legs painted blue by his sinfully tight jeans. As soon as he thought of it, it left, vanquished by an image of Dominique, smiling pretty in a sundress, her legs tan and long. Obviously Crystal meant Dom. Not John. 

"You got me," Roger laughed weakly. "But keep up the sass and I won't give you a pillow." 

Crystal flipped him off as he made his way down the hall, stumbling slightly due to sleep heavy limbs. Passing that damned scenic painting, he glared at it out of the corner of his eye.

"Hey, Chris?" he called, pausing just in front of it. "Am I crazy, or is there something up with this fucking painting?" 

"I think you're just crazy, Rog," Crystal called from the couch, not even bothering to look over. "Do I need to call Nurse Ratched?" 

"Piss off," Roger said with very little anger, shaking his head as he stumbled towards the linen closet. Grabbing a set of sheets and a spare duvet, Roger threw them both over his shoulder before kneeling to the ground to fetch the spare pillows and pillow cases out of the Tupperware box where Deacy had tucked them away to keep them dust free. "One pillow or two?" 

"Two, you stingy bastard! D'you want me to throw out my back? Christ!" 

"One day," Roger muttered to himself. "I will smother you while you sleep and I won't feel one iota of shame." 

Crystal set himself up on the couch, punching down the pillow for comfort before instructing Roger to ring his bell should he need him in the middle of the night. Roger waved him off and made his way back to his room, crawling under the covers and dutifully tugging off his socks, which he threw willy nilly towards the hamper. A quick glance at the alarm clock told him it was just about midnight; too early for John to come home. Sighing, Roger pulled the covers up under his chin, closed his eyes, and let himself drift off to sleep.

*

"— _Shit, Fred, don't drop him!_ " 

Roger jolted awake, woken by a crash in the living room, followed by the slamming of the door. Reaching up to rub the sleep from his eye, he fumbled with the alarm clock, squinting at the red analog numbers in the dark of his room. Three-thirty am. John must be back. He flopped back onto his pillow, willing himself back to sleep. He was just on the edge of passing out when someone cried out, startling his eyes open. 

" _—s'not fair, Fred. S'not fair._ " 

That sounded almost like John, like he was upset. Worried, Roger sat upright, straining to hear more. He could make out Freddie's voice, unusually quiet, and then—was John _crying?_ Roger twisted out of bed, shivering as his feet touched the cold floor. Ignoring his socks in favor of hearing more, Roger tiptoed to the door, holding his breath as he twisted the knob. Light from the hallway flooded his room, blinding him momentarily. 

"You have to be quiet, Deaks, okay? We don't want to wake Roger." Brian. What was Brian doing there? Did all three of them go out without him? 

He opened the door further and stuck his head through the crack, squinting to try and make sense of what was going on. 

"S'not fair," John sobbed, his voice echoing down the hall. "I hate this. Ever'thing _sucks_." 

"I know, John, but please, be quiet." 

"No! Wassa point? Nothin' matters, it's _useless!_ "

"Someone shut him up," Crystal hissed. "Roger's asleep down the hall." 

"Roger!" John cried. "I—I miss 'im. I miss him s-so m-m-much." 

There were the sounds of a struggle, then a loud thud followed by furiously whispered cursing.

"Jesus Christ, Brian!" 

"It's not my fault, he tripped over the edge of the rug!" 

"Everyone, shuddit! I'm not going to tell you again!" 

Roger decided enough was enough, stepping into the light and making his way down the hall. "What's going on?" he asked, turning the corner to find the four of them in a precarious situation. 

John was slumped on the stairs, his head somewhere between his knees, sniffling pathetically. Freddie was behind him, half draped over his back in what appeared to be an attempt to sit him upright. Brian, curiously, was knelt by John's feet, staring at Roger in horror while Crystal stood over them all, his disapproval clear on his face. 

"Go back to bed, Roger," Brian snapped, shaking himself out of his stupor. "We've got this." 

"Roger?" John slurred, lifting his tear stained face towards him. His eyes were red and swollen, slightly cross eyed from the alcohol, cheeks blotchy with tear marks. There were two large and suspicious stains on his shirt; Roger didn't know if they were vomit or spilled alcohol. He didn't know which one was worse. He watched as John's lower lip wobbled around a sob, "Where'd you go?" 

"I'm right here, John," Roger said gently, making to walk towards him. However, Freddie shook his head, stopping him in his tracks. "John, I'm here." 

"No," John whimpered. "No, you're not. Oh, god." 

Roger could only watch in horror as he collapsed back over, shoulders wracked with gut wrenching sobs that seemed to come from his soul. Roger wanted to rush to his side, to draw him into a hug, run his fingers through his hair and down the expanse of his back until he stopped his wailing, until he could breathe without gasping. 

"Shh, John, it's alright," Freddie murmured. Twisting around on the step, Freddie pulled John into a hug, comforting him the way Roger so desperately wanted to. "It's okay, John, just let it out." 

"It hurts," John wailed, his voice cracking. "I want him _back_." 

"I know, shhh, I know." 

"S'not fair. S'not fucking fair." 

"C'mon, John, let's get you to bed, alright?" Brian soothes with a pat to his shoulder. "Let's go upstairs." 

"Hate it there," John slurs into the meat of Freddie's shoulder. "S'cold n'lonely n'R—"

"Roger." 

He turned, startled, unaware that Crystal had moved let alone come up next to him. 

"Let me help you back to bed," Crystal murmured, reaching out to grab him by the arm. "You shouldn't see this." 

"What happened?" Roger demanded. 

Crystal ran a hand through his hair. "Guess he got a little too drunk," he shrugged. "You know how it is, sometimes the alcohol hits and you get weepy. In fact, one time I had to pick you up off the floor—"

"Stop," Roger found himself snapping. He didn't want to hear about some shit he'd done, he wanted to know what happened to John. "Is he okay?" 

"He'll be fine once we get some water in him and he sleeps it off. Might have one hell of a hangover, but it's nothing he hasn't had before."

Roger had only seen John like this once before, right before he'd moved in. They'd spent the night trying to drink away Veronica, but it'd backfired spectacularly, resulting in John gasping for breath as he choked on his own tears, collapsed in a back garden and desperately, painfully sad. Now that the years had passed, Roger was strong enough to admit that the sight of John, usually stoic and strong, lay broken on the ground and weeping had terrified him. This was no exception. John had been the only one holding it all together; when Roger had cried and bitched and raged against the unfairness of his injury, John had been the one with a shoulder for him to lean on. And now, he was falling to pieces on his stairs and there was nothing Roger could do about it. 

"Chris—"

"Not right now, Roger. Let me get you back to bed, okay? Freddie and Brian will handle him," Crystal insisted, reaching to grab him, manhandling him back towards the hallway. "I don't think John would want you to see him like this." 

Roger twisted in time to see Freddie scoop John up by the armpits while Brian supported his back as they half-carried, half-dragged him up the stairs to his room, still weeping. It took all his will power for him not to burst into tears as well. Something, something _deep_ within him, ached for John. Ached to run up the stairs after him, to shake him by the shoulders and yell that he was there, that he hadn't gone anywhere. But he couldn't, and so he didn't.

Crystal led him back towards his room, past that fucking nightmare of a painting, past the empty walls that he just knew once held something more, into his dark little room that no matter how hard he tried could never feel right. Upstairs, through the floorboards, Roger could still hear John crying, his whimpers haunting him from out of sight. He allowed himself to be helped into bed, letting Crystal help him pull the covers up to rest under his chin. 

"You know," Crystal said before he stopped, pausing in both speech and movements. He closed his eyes as though weighing his options before shaking his head, exhaling deeply, "Look, Rog. I—"

Roger waited, but when Crystal didn't continue, "Yes?" 

"Fuck it," Crystal hissed as he ran a hand through his hair. "You can ask me _anything_. Anything, Roger, no matter how weird you think it might be, or how out there. You have a question, or you want me to confirm anything? _Ask me_. I'll tell you the truth, no matter what. But you have to _ask_ me. Understand?" 

Roger frowned, "I don't understand—"

"If you _ask_ me," Crystal stressed, "I will _tell_ you and I won't lie. You just have to ask." 

Crystal stared at him, as though imploring him to ask, but Roger didn't know what he was supposed to say. What could he ask? Why was John crying? Why was Freddie so insistent he leave? Why was everything such a shit show? What happened to him? Why wasn't John married yet? Why did Roger wake up feeling more and more heartbroken each time he realized his dreams were just that? _What was going on?_

But when he went to open his mouth and ask, something drew him back. It wasn't his business to ask; if John wanted him to know, he would tell him. Roger knew that like he knew his own name. If it were important, John would tell him. So he settled for not knowing. Shaking his head, he turned away from Crystal. 

"Goodnight, Chris. Thank you for being a good friend," he said quietly, reaching to squeeze at his fingers. Crystal sighed, long and hard, but nodded. 

"Night Rog. I'll see you in the morning." 

He left, closing the door behind him, leaving only a strip of light from the hallway. Roger stared at the ceiling, listening to John's broken sobs and gasping breaths until he fell asleep, his mind whirling with all sorts of questions that had no answers.

*

 _It was cold, down at the bottom of the ocean. Above him, he knew there was sun, and sand, and_ him, _but he couldn't find the power to move. No matter how hard he kicked, how hard he swam, he never got closer to the surface, to him. Desperate, he urged himself faster, higher, harder, but was never quite able to make it—never able to escape._

_Defeated, Roger sunk to the depths, burrowing down in the sand. Staring through the murky silt, he stared up at the wavering sunlight filtering down to where he lay, yearning to break free from the depths._

*

He awoke in the morning with a headache that promised him nothing but trouble for the rest of the day, although he doubted his would be anywhere near as terrible as John's. Staring up at the ceiling, Roger struggled to make sense of everything that had happened last night. He hadn't seen John get that bad in _years_ , it wasn't like him to drink that much or go that hard. Sure, John drank a lot, everyone in the band did. But he knew his limits, knew when he was getting to deep or too close to losing control. The John from last night was someone Roger hadn't seen since they were barely even adults, and even then it had been far and few between. Roger hated to admit it, but it scared him. What could have set him off that bad? 

Desperate to get to the bottom of things he crawled out of bed, making his way into the kitchen. Figuring John would need a large cup of tea—or more—he immediately set the kettle to boil. He knew himself well enough that making breakfast was going to be a shit show, but figured he could at least get started on making some toast. He was halfway through putting two extra thick slices in the toaster when he heard someone walk into the kitchen. A quick glance proved to be Crystal, ruffled and exhausted, almost smudged around the edges. 

"Morning, Rog," he yawned, scratching at his belly. "Any chance I can get some of that toast?" 

"Sure," Roger shrugged, throwing two more slices in. "Tea?" 

"Bless you," Crystal moaned as he slumped into his seat, dropping his head into his hands. "Jesus, I am far too old to be crashing on couches. Next time you either give up the bed or accept the fact that I'm crawling in with you." 

"Believe me when I say if those are my options, there won't be a next time," Roger huffed as he stood on his tiptoes, pulling down three mugs from the top shelf. 

"Don't bother with the third mug," Crystal sighed. "John won't be waking up for at least three more hours, and we'll already be at the studio." 

"What?" Roger furrowed his brow. "We're not leaving him." 

"Yes we are," Crystal grunted. "We've got shit to do, and John needs to recover. Besides, trust me when I say you don't want to be around when he wakes up. If you thought he used to be bad when he's hungover, he's only gotten worse. It's best if we leave him alone, allow him the time to vomit up all the booze he drank last night, and hope that he's better by dinner." 

"But—" 

"Roger," Crystal said sharply. "We're going to the studio, and John is going to spend the day in bed." 

"Fine," Roger snarled, moving to flip the toaster and forcing the bread out. In a huff, he threw the warm bread in Crystal's face. "Make your own fucking breakfast then." 

Storming off into his bedroom, he threw himself onto the bed and didn't move again until Crystal threatened to drag him out by his ankles. 

The rest of the day was spent mostly in silence; the three of them didn't interact with one another beyond the necessary. Roger holed up again in the spare room, scribbling down whatever shitty lyrics he could think of, while Brian and Freddie pretended they weren't hungover in the main room. Little was done, which only served to piss off Roger more. There was no reason for him to be there, hell, there was no reason for any of them to be there. And yet there he was, pissed off and sulking in a backroom because he didn't get his way. 

When it hit three o'clock, Crystal came to fetch him. However, instead of taking him home he spent a few more hours driving Roger around, showing him as much as Munich as he could before the sun set. If pressed, Roger would never admit that he actually enjoyed the trip, but it was nice to get out of the house and explore the city. 

Finally, Crystal decided they'd left John alone long enough, just around dinner time. Roger insisted that they stop to pick up burgers and fries, making sure to get extra mustard and grilled onions for John. They entered the house together, keeping their voices low so as to not wake John should he still be sleeping off his hangover.

John, however, surprised the both of them by being up and about, sitting in front of the telly watching the news. He still had a sickly grey look to him, as well as a smattering of broken capillaries around his eyes, but he was awake. That was all that mattered to Roger, who yearned to rush to the couch and flop next to him, pet at him and demand he tell him what happened. Instead, he raised the back of takeaway with a grin. 

"I brought dinner, darling," he announced cheerfully. John, who had turned to face them when he'd heard the door, blanched. Crystal sighed and pinched the meat of Roger's bicep. 

"Shut up, Roger," he commanded as he made his way to the couch. "Hullo, Deaks. Feeling better, are we?" 

"Hi, Chris," John mumbled, still and quiet in the glow from the telly. "How was the studio?" 

"Boring," Crystal sighed, reaching over to change the channels to a subtitled episode of _M*A*S*H_. "Roger and I brought back burgers and fries, but _someone_ is hoarding them." 

Roger shot him a nasty glare but did as was implied and made his way over to the couch. John shifted slightly to make room for him on the couch, and he smiled gratefully. 

"Made sure to get grilled onions," Roger said as he handed him his burger. 

"Thanks," said John, voice still quiet. 

"'Course," Roger said awkwardly. There was a pregnant pause before he added; "Remember that time in San Francisco? With the roller-skates and the cocaine?" 

John grimaced, "I try not to." 

"Nothing can ever be worse than San Francisco. So, no worries, alright?" 

He made the mistake of looking at John, getting caught like a fly in a spider's web within his eyes. There was so much more to say, but all words flew from his mind. It didn't matter in the end. Whatever John saw within his eyes had him soften, ducking his head in agreement. 

"Alright," John repeated quietly. They sat there together pressed side by side, neither saying a word, comforted by each other's presence.

*

They moved on from that night, steadfastly refusing to mention what had happened, what the other had heard. And slowly, things in the studio seemed to be moving forward. _Hot Space_ was taking more from them than any other album had before, but they were committed to finishing it. Every morning, John and Roger would troop into the studio, and while Roger found himself able to stay longer and longer, he wasn't cleared to play. The doctors were worried about his lack of memories, fearful that the gaps in his life were proof that his concussion still remained, despite his lack of flare-ups. Until more memories returned he would have to remain sidelined, at least until six months had passed from the initial accident. For his safety, they insisted. 

John and Roger broke the news to Brian and Freddie carefully. Freddie, in typical fashion, stormed from the room the moment the words had left Roger's mouth, leaving the three alone to digest. 

"So we postpone the album release," Brian huffed, leaning back in his chair so as to kick his feet up onto the table. "It's a solid enough reason; we can't not have Roger play on the record." 

"Six months," Roger groaned, pressing one of the throw pillows from the studio couch into his face, ignoring the fact that his own head was inhibiting the record's release. "That's forever!" 

"It's only three months," John sighed from across the room. "You're already halfway through March; it'll be June in no time." 

"Oh, fuck," Brian swore, sitting upright, his feet dropping from. "Shit, we're halfway through March." 

"John just said that," Roger grumbled, moving the pillow so he could glare at him. 

"No, Deacy, it's halfway through _March_ ," Brian stressed. "That means—"

"I forgot," breathed John. "Is it too late to cancel?" 

"I dunno. I'll grab Freddie, see what he says." 

"I think it's too late." John rushed to the studio calendar, flipping through the pages carefully. "Shit, fuck, he's due in Friday. We can't cancel—"

"—I'll call Miami—"

"What the hell is Miami going to do—"

"—Or Freddie can call!" 

"And say what?" 

"Anything!" 

"What the fuck is going on? Who's coming?" Roger threw the pillow, satisfaction warming in his chest at the sight of it smacking Brian in the back of the head. 

"Roger!" Brian cried, turning in shock. "Fuck off!" 

"What's going on?" 

"You invited David Bowie to come work with us," John explained, exasperated. "But it doesn't make sense for him to come when you can't play." 

Roger was floored, "I invited David Bowie? To come play with us? And he said yes?" 

"You're friends," John explained with a grimace. "Met at a party back in '79, reconnected after—"

"I sold him a pair of boots," Roger said, dazed. "He remembered me?" 

"Oh Jesus, not this shit again," Brian swore, throwing the pillow back at Roger, who caught it one handed, star struck. "I thought we were over this." 

"David Bowie remembered me?" 

John huffed a laugh, "Not quite. But you're friends, now. And he's coming on Friday. We have to cancel." 

"No!" Roger blurted out. "No, no, why? Why would we—we don't have to cancel! He can totally come, hang with us, have a jam session." 

Brian rolled his eyes, stalking from the room, "I'm getting Freddie. Maybe he can knock some sense into you." 

"Roger," John said slowly. "None of us are friends with David Bowie, except you—"

"We're _friends?_ "

"—it would be weird. Plus, it's not fair if you can't play." 

"Who cares! I'm going to meet David Bowie!" 

"Technically you've already met." 

"Semantics! We're going to play, and you can't cancel, Deaks, okay? Please, do this for me," Roger begged. "Don't cancel!" 

John watched him carefully, but sighed, "Fine. I'll talk with Brian and Freddie, see what they have to say, alright? I make no promises." 

David Bowie arrived on Friday, bright and early. Roger was practically vibrating with excitement, chewing off half his fingernails in anticipation. The whole morning he'd been watching the door, waiting for him to arrive. The others, too, were just as anxious as Roger. It certainly didn't help that Prenter, bandaged nose and everything, was back in the studio, thanks to Phoebe catching a rather terrible cold. The moment Crystal had heard the news, he'd planted next to Roger, enjoying the way Prenter shied away from him like a mouse with a cat. John, too, kept an eye on Prenter in between prepping for David Bowie's arrival. Save for a rather forced and stilted apology, Prenter stayed far away from Roger, the way he preferred it.

But not even Prenter's presence could ruin Roger's mood. David Bowie, the man who practically made their career just by being too busy to perform on Top of the Pops, was coming to the studio to play with them, all because Roger had asked. Because they were friends. David Bowie and him were friends. Roger could just about die from sheer joy. 

And he almost did, tripping over his feet in his haste to greet him when he arrived. Burning scarlet from his blush, Roger struggled to keep his shit together as he stuck his hand out for David Bowie to shake. 

"Hi," he said like an absolute idiot. "I'm Roger." 

"I know," said David Bowie with a quirk of a smile. "I'm not the one missing four years of memory." And then, to Roger's absolute joy, he maneuvered Roger into a quick and firm hug. Roger had to fight the urge to collapse. "Good to see you up and about." 

"Yup," said Roger, dazed. Over David Bowie's shoulder, Freddie was snickering at him. Call it maturity, but Roger did not flip him off, no matter how much he wanted to. 

"Hey, David, wonderful to see you," John smiled once Roger had been released. Roger watched in awe as John shook David Bowie's hand. 

"When Roger invited me, I knew I couldn't turn down the opportunity," David shrugged. "I heard you have some tracks that you want me to listen to?" 

"Roger's got an absolutely brilliant one—"

"Oh, no, let's not bore him with that," Roger hastened to interrupt Brian before he could say anything stupid. "I think John mentioned something about _Cool Cat_?" 

David laughed, gesturing at the table, "Play whatever you want. I'm happy to offer my help to anything." 

"More like advice," Freddie tossed out, staying firm in his seat by the door, an air of indifference about him. 

"Of course," David soothed, unfazed. "Shall we?" 

Once Roger got over the shock of working with David Bowie, it felt just like any other session they'd had before. It was push and pull; David would suggest something that they'd either adore, or despise, followed by a twenty minute argument over why or why not it would work. It was dirty and tiring and frustrating and so utterly fulfilling that Roger never wanted it to end. 

His contributions were limited—at one point he'd been shuffled out of the room when John thought he was on the cusp of a flare up, but was able to talk his way back into the room after drinking two glasses of water and taking a precautionary ibuprofen. He was unable to drum, but that didn't stop him from instructing Crystal to play the way he imagined, taking sheer pleasure at bossing him around from the sound booth. It wasn't the same as playing himself, but it was better than nothing. 

John, in the meanwhile, had sequestered himself away into a corner of the room, watching them all from afar while he played with his bass, strumming away at the same little repetitive riff over and over again, his eyes glazed in a way that proved he wasn't really present. Roger couldn't help but admire him. There was something magical about John working; something that made him want to stop and stare. It was like he would put his whole body, mind, and spirit into his work, going over and over it until it was absolutely perfect. When John was creating, there was no doubt it was going to be a success. It had been the same for _You're My Best Friend_ —John had locked himself down in his little basement bedroom at Ridge Farm and hadn't come out until it was finished. An ode to Veronica, his last little bit of her before saying goodbye. 

Roger's stomach turned at the thought, and he carefully shook himself out of it. No use sulking over old wounds. 

"David," he said, relishing the way that he was on a first name basis with David fuckin' Bowie. "I've got this bit of a song, see, that I'm stuck on. Fancy taking a look?" 

"Why not," he shrugged, carefully unfolding himself from where he'd been sitting next to Brian. Roger giddily handed over his notebook, drumming his fingers on the edge of his thighs in anticipation. "This is...this is good, Rog. Good start. How do you want it to go?" 

"See, that's where I'm not sure," Roger confessed. "I feel like it's missing something, probably a solid rhythm section." 

"Obviously," Freddie snorted. 

"I can't quite get the rhythm, though," he added, ignoring Freddie. He started snapping his fingers, alternating with a slap on his thigh for every other beat. "Something like this, but it needs _more_." 

"And see, this part here?" David pointed to part of the chorus he'd been fiddling with. "Too wordy. Needs to be shortened." 

"I quite like that," Freddie cut in just to be contrary. "Think it's brilliant." 

"No, no, see, it should be _here_ as part of the first verse. And this? This needs—"

"—Okay, yeah, so if we did this," Freddie frowned, muscling Roger out of the way and taking over his spot on the couch so he could read better. Roger couldn't help but feel miffed, getting excluded from his own song. Brian merely shrugged when he looked his way, turning back to his own piece, steadfastly refusing to move his feet for Roger to sit down. 

"Come sit by me," John offered, still playing with his own instrument. Never one to turn the opportunity to get close to John, Roger threw himself onto the floor by his feet. 

"What do you think?" 

"Which one did you show him?" John asked, finally turning away from his bass. "The one about magic?" 

"No," Roger sulked. " _People on Streets_." 

"I quite like that one," John hummed. "You said it was missing the rhythm section?" 

"Not missing, per say, just...not there. It needs something heavy, something fast. But I don't know what yet." 

John hummed again, moving to knock his knee against Roger's shoulder. "I've got something," he suggested. "Maybe it'll work?" 

On the other end of the room, Freddie and David were singing back at forth at each other, little riffs and scats that were slowly coming together. Not, Roger couldn't help but notice, with Roger's lyrics. Some they kept, but other's they changed. Huffing out a little sigh, he leaned back against the leg of John's chair. 

"Why not," he mused. "Might as well." 

"You always say the nicest things," John laughed, but didn't hesitate in plugging in his bass. Strumming quickly and carefully, he began to pluck out a steady riff, fast and smooth, just dirty enough to catch attention. Roger froze. He could hear it, in his head, the way he'd come in with cymbals, then a bass drum, building up the intensity until it was just him and John's riff, holding up Freddie's voice. 

"I quite like that," David called, breaking the spell. Roger startled, sitting upright. 

"I've got it," he said. "Quick, someone get me my sticks—"

"You can't play," Brian reminded him. "We can call Crystal back in." 

"Why not use the drum machine, like we've been using this whole time?" Prenter drawled from his seat in the corner, bored. "Might as well, since we're without a drummer." 

Humiliation washed over Roger like a tidal wave, rushing hot and fast down his spine. Shrinking back into himself, he tried to make it look as though it didn't bother him, being reminded of his inability to play in front of David Bowie. 

"We have a drummer," John snapped, bristling at Prenter's tone. "We don't need the machine." 

"It's fine," Roger muttered, curling back against the chair and avoiding David's eye. "We can use the drum machine, it's fine."

"It's not fine. We can figure something out—"

"Drop it," Roger hissed, flushing impossibly darker. "The machine is fine." 

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. 

"Shall I get the machine?" David asked, arching one brow. "See what Roger has planned?" 

"No—"

"Yes," Roger stressed, getting to his feet. "I'll get it, figure something out." 

As he turned to leave, John reached out, grabbing for his hand. Roger turned, surprised. John hesitated, searching his face for some sort of answer, but Roger didn't know what. When he didn't say anything, Roger carefully twisted his hand free, attempting a smile. "Keep working on that line," Roger said. "I'll just fiddle with the machine." 

Again, John hesitated, but did as he was told, strumming out a consistent beat that echoed in Roger's chest as he made his way out of the room, leaving the rest behind. 

They continued to work on _People on Streets_ until dinner, stopping only when Freddie began moaning about how hungry he was, just absolutely _starving_ , darling, couldn't they stop for just a moment so he wouldn't lose his creative flow? 

Due to Brian's inability to eat meat, and David's reluctance to try the local Thai place they had grown quite fond of, the five of them—plus Crystal, Mack, and, regrettably, Prenter—found themselves crammed into a pizza parlor, laughing over pitchers of beer and thick slices of pizza. Roger couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much fun; it as though the accident had never happened. There were no inside jokes for him to get lost over, or stories that he couldn't participate in. David regaled them all with tales of his own tour that put their own stories to shame. Roger had once fancied him the craziest person he'd known; in the face of David Bowie, however, he was positively saintlike. 

They stayed until closing, and then for two hours later once David had slapped a few hundred marks on the table, prompting the owners to bring another round of pie and beer. By the time they were finished, the streets were empty of anyone save the couple of drunks that were staggering through the early Spring cold to the bars. Roger was stuffed with cheese and bread, ready to get back into the studio and finish what they started. 

"I've probably only got a few more hours in me, since my little friend has been banned," David yawned as he collapsed onto the couch, his head falling back. Roger looked towards Freddie, confused. Freddie pressed his finger to the side of his nose and took an exaggerated sniff. 

"When did they ban coke?" Roger asked, curious. 

David laughed, shaking his head. "No one did," he huffed. "Well, just your boyfriend." 

The mood in the room immediately darkened as the conversation died, everyone's gaze coming to rest on David, who shifted uncomfortably, refusing to meet any eyes. 

"What?" Roger asked, even more confused. 

"Nothing," Freddie snapped through gritted teeth. "David here just thinks he's being funny." 

"Sorry," David apologized quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I got carried away. I didn't mean—"

"No, you didn't," John said darkly, his tone unnaturally even. "What he meant is that Mack has a strict no-drug policy, especially after your accident. Isn't that right, Mack?" 

Mack startled, but nodded rapidly, "Right, right, of course. No drugs." 

"Yes," John said, his tone still heavy. "We were very clear with David what the rules were." 

Roger had the feeling that there was more, something they weren't saying, but one look at John's expression, stiff and focused like an animal going for the kill, warned him off. 

"Shall we continue?" he asked, quick to change the subject, still keeping an eye on John, just in case he decided to lunge for David and go for the jugular. 

"Of course," Brian nodded, getting up to go for his guitar. "From the top?"

"Certainly," Freddie sniffed, jumping to his feet. "Roger, darling, you just sit there, look pretty, and enjoy the show." 

Scowling, Roger tried to fight off a wave of shame. The rest of them were doing their part, and all Roger could do was watch, unable to even pick up his sticks to help out. He looked on in envy as they made their way to their places, leaning up against the table and making to cue in the drum track. Next to him, Mack placed a hand on his shoulder, a bit of comfort he hadn't been aware he needed. 

"You'll be back in there in no time," Mack said. "Just you wait." 

Emotion thick in his throat, Roger dipped his head in thanks. 

"Alright," he coughed into the mic. "Deaks, you ready to start?" 

John flashed him a thumbs up before playing the first notes of the same riff from before. But unlike before, it wasn't as smooth, the rhythm off and clunky. John ducked his head, frowning as he tried it again, his fingers fumbling at the strings. 

"What the fuck," Crystal muttered next to Roger. "Was that the way it was before?"

"No," Roger said carefully, "That's not it at all." 

"Holy shit," Crystal gasped. "He fucking forgot it." 

"What?" Roger watched in shock as John looked up at him, then back at the bass, flushing as he stumbled over the riff once more, hitting the wrong notes. "That's not how it's supposed to go." 

"What is this?" Freddie demanded from the song booth. "Is that what it was?"

"I think so," Brian pitched in, his brow furrowed. "Isn't it?" 

"No, it was faster, right?" David asked, crossing his arms. 

"He fucking forgot it," Roger breathed. 

Before he knew what he was doing, he had jumped from his seat, making his way into the booth towards John, who was still fumbling with the strings, his shoulders hiked up to his ears. 

"I've got it," John hissed insistently, refusing to meet his eye. "I just—I've had too much beer. That's all." 

"Oh, sure," Roger nodded nonchalantly. Glancing over at Brian, who was growing increasingly impatient, he leaned in carefully towards John. "Did you forget?" 

"No," John snapped. "Of course not!" 

"Okay," Roger said. "I got you." Winking quickly at John, he sighed theatrically, shaking his head before raising his voice, "Fine, John, you're right. My idea sucks." 

Turning to face the others, he pulled a face and shrugged. "I had an idea I wanted to try, see if it would go better with the beat in my head, but guess not. John, let's go back to the other one, from before? Dun-dun-dun-dundundun," he prompted, raising his eyebrows. "Remember, slow then quick." 

Recognition flooded over John's face, and the stress melted off his shoulders as John found the notes once more, plucking at them with confidence as it came rushing back. 

"Thank you," John mouthed, the worried line between his brows vanishing. Roger merely smiled in reply before clapping his hands. 

"Alright, everyone, from the top!" 

They finished recording at three in the morning, the final notes getting sung just as Roger found himself dozing off on the couch he had commandeered, fighting back sleep with jawbreaking yawns. Freddie was the one to call it, throwing in the towel when his voice cracked around a yawn on his sixth run of the high-note. It didn't take much to convince the rest of them, who were all aching and ready to be tucked away in bed. 

"I think that's it for today," David agreed, staggering towards the door, coat in hand. "Fellas, it's been a pleasure." 

"Lemme walk you out," Roger insisted with a yawn. "Least I can do." 

Together they made their way to the exit, chattering aimlessly about the recording. Once they reached the door, David stopped, leaning over to rest both hands on Roger's shoulders. 

"I want you to give me a call when you're back behind the kit," he insisted, his mismatched eyes boring into Roger's. "I'll be the first one buying a ticket to see you play again." 

"Thanks, David," Roger said, struggling to keep his heart from beating right out of his chest. "Means a lot." 

"I know you'll be up and playing in no time. I've got faith," David said intensely. "I mean it. Call me when you're back." 

"Will do. Get home safe, alright?" 

David staggered off into the night, throwing a wave over his shoulder as he did. Roger turned from the threshold, slowly making his way back. He was about to open the door when he heard his name. Curious, he cracked it open just enough to hear more clearly, pressing his ear to the wood. 

"—serious, John, that was good of you, pretending to forget the riff. I know it made Roger feel better, like he was being useful," Brian said casually, having no idea that he was breaking Roger's heart. "He really needed that, to feel like he was contributing." 

Roger stumbled away from the door, bile rising in his throat. Of _course_ John didn't forget the riff; it was all just an act designed to make him feel useful. Make him feel like he was actually a member of the band, not just—what was it Freddie called him? 'The little mascot on the couch'. That was all Roger was. He was just a figurehead, someone to sit there and look pretty while a machine took over his role, or while Crystal imitated him. He was an idiot for thinking that it would be any different, that he was actually helping. If anything, he was just holding them back. They couldn't work when they were worrying over him, stressing if Roger was going to get hurt again, or needed to be taken care of. 

Poor little Roger, thinking that he actually mattered. Thinking they still wanted him in the band when he couldn't play, couldn't do anything more than waste their time recording stupid little songs that no one actually liked. The only mistake he made was thinking that there was anything he could bring to the table that they didn't already have. Prenter was right; they were without a drummer. 

"There you are!" John smiled, swinging open the door. "You ready to go home?" 

Unable to even speak, Roger merely nodded, keeping his head down so no one would notice the stricken expression he was sure was painted on his face. Roger followed John out to the car, struggling to hold himself together. Whether John didn't notice or didn't care, Roger didn't know. The entire ride was silent, not even the radio playing to distract Roger from the angry roar of blood in his ears. He managed to bite his tongue until they got to their house, when it got to be too much for him. 

"I don't want to go back to the studio," he blurted out, causing John's foot to slip off the clutch in shock and stalling out the car. 

"What?" John said, pressing his hand to his heart. "Shit, Rog, you scared me! What do you mean, go back to the studio? You don't have to, we're going to bed." 

"No," Roger rolled his eyes, struggling not to cry. "I mean I don't want to go back in the morning." 

"Oh, okay. We can sleep in, come back in the afternoon—"

"Jesus, John, listen to me! I do not want to go back. Period. Until I can drum again." 

John froze, his hands tightening on the wheel before he turned to him, his expression darkening. "What happened?" he demanded. "Did someone say something to you?" 

_You did_ , Roger wanted to snarl. _You and Brian did_. 

Instead, "No," Roger lied. "I just—I don't want to go back until June. When I can play. It sucks, John, it fucking sucks, watching everyone else work when I can't do anything. It's not fair." 

"Roger—"

"I don't want your pity, okay? I just want to be normal. I want to feel normal, and I can't. I can't when I'm stuck watching everyone do what I want to do, to participate when I can't. And it sucks. And it makes me feel like shit. So I don't want to go back until I can play again," Roger said in one big rush of a breath. "So I'm not going back. Until June." 

"Okay," John inhaled sharply. "Okay, that's fine. We won't go back—"

"Not 'we', John. Just me. I'm not going back. But you are." 

"Absolutely not—"

"The doctors said I was elligable to stay home alone _two weeks_ ago. I can stay home on my own. You go in the studio, finish what needs to get finished, and I'll stay home." 

"No—" 

"John!" Roger yelled, growing frustrated. "Will you fucking listen to what I want for once in your life? I. Do. Not. Want. You. To. Stay. I want to be alone! I want to feel like a fucking adult, not a child! I want to stay home, I don't want—or need—you to coddle me! Let me stay home!" 

"Fine!" John bellowed, his face turning an alarming shade of puce. "Fine!" 

"Good!" Roger yelled, clambering from the car, slamming the car door shut behind him. Ignoring how John scrambled after him, Roger made his way to the front door, his heart racing the whole while. Turning from John when he made to open the door, Roger fought to keep himself together, pretending not to hear John calling after him. Pushing his way inside, he hurried to his room where, once the door was locked behind him, he silently allowed himself to fall apart.

The next day Roger ignored John's knock at the door, burrowing under his covers until he heard the front door slam. Despite getting what he wanted, Roger had never felt more alone.

Every morning for a week, John would stand outside of Roger's room, waiting to see if he would finally come back to the studio, and every day Roger would ignore him. It was a sort of dance, John trying to convince him to come back, and Roger trying to convince him to let him stay. There was an undercurrent of tension, just waiting to explode. Neither were able to discuss it, too wary of setting the other off. And so they ignored it in the hope that it would resolve itself on its own. But things are never quite that easy. 

*

It came to a head with, of all things, a jumper. 

It had been cold in the apartment, colder than it had been in months, and Roger was sick and tired of wearing a blanket around his shoulders like a cape. It didn’t take him long to decide that if he was going to suffer through the cold, then John would have to suffer without his favorite jumper, the big red wool one that he had bought back before they had ever even charted in the states and always denied Roger from wearing, no matter how much he begged. But John wasn’t there, he was at the studio, and Roger was stuck in their stupid little house in stupid Munich and what John didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. It made sense for him to he sneak into John's room with all the grace of a child who knew they were misbehaving and carefully rifle through the drawers, making sure not to make it obvious that someone had gone through his things.

Tiptoeing up the stairs, Roger made absolutely sure that no one was home before he slowly cracked open the bedroom door. He'd never been up there before, had never even ventured onto the stairs. He'd always known that that was John's space, and it was off limits. Unlike his own bedroom, the upstairs master bedroom was John's place and John's alone. Even when he was finally able to stay home alone, John had merely brought his pills down to sit by his bedside, removing any and all reason for him to ever venture into John's room. 

He didn't know what he'd expected; maybe something grand? Ornate and richly decorated like Freddie's house? Or worse, something barren and cold, more like a dungeon. Or maybe something like Ridge Farm, all kitschy florals and plaids. But the room was nothing of the sort. It was tastefully decorated in navy blues and creams—in fact, it looked like something Roger would have decorated. The bed was large and neatly made with lots of pillows, just as Roger liked it. There was a little vanity with various items scattered across the top: a container of hand-cream that both he and John liked, a bottle of aftershave, and, weirdly enough, a picture of Roger. 

Curious, Roger made his way to the vanity, picking up the picture. It was one of the ridiculous vanity pictures Freddie had demanded of Mick Rock, forcing all of them to stare wistfully into the camera like ponces, not the up and coming rock band they'd imagined themselves to be. At the time, it had been exciting to just be photographed, it didn't matter what they looked like, just that they were getting noticed. But as time went on, the photos became more and more embarrassing to look at, the four of them always cringing at the sight of them done up in eyeliner and feathers, seemingly naked and pouting like school girls. 

The photo John had chosen was no exception, and he cringed at the sight of himself in little more than a vest and that hideously awful hat he'd been obsessed with through all of seventy-four and half of seventy-five, posing like a moron with his finger in his mouth. It was awful and humiliating and so bloody typical of John to hold onto the worst photo to display, probably looking at it every morning just for a laugh. 

Scowling, he slammed the picture back down on the vanity, keeping care to leave it where he'd found it. If it weren't for the fact that he was trying to be secretive, he'd have removed the photo all together, but knowing John, he'd notice the second it was out of place. 

Putting the photo out of his mind, he turned towards the set of drawers, ready to grab the jumper and leave.

It was harder, however, to find the jumper than he had expected; in the past four years missing from his memory, John had severely lowered his standards of neatness, if Roger had to gauge off the state of his clothing. Gone were the crisp corners of well folded shirts and pants, instead, everything had been shoved in willy nilly as though he didn’t want to see what he had. Roger frowned. It looked more like something he would have done, just chucking everything in and hoping he’d have enough time to iron them when he needed them.

Rolling his eyes, he pushed the drawer in, sighing in defeat. Maybe John hadn't even brought it with him, choosing instead to leave it behind in London. But that didn't sound like him—the jumper was a favorite of his, and went with him wherever he went. Or, at least, it had. Giving up completely on the drawers he made his way into his closet, kicking open the door with the side of his foot. 

Reaching up to pull the light on, Roger blinking in the sudden brightness, taking in the organized hangers of clothes and neatly folded jumpers. Frowning, Roger ran his fingers over John's collections of button downs and jackets, noticing how they were organized by style, color, and season. Just as John normally did. None of that reckless disorganization that Roger was known for, or as the drawers were. 

Pushing any doubts or thoughts from his mind, he headed towards the back of the closet where all the jumpers were stored. He was halfway to giving up when he spotted the jumper out of the corner of his eye, tucked away on a top shelf. 

"Gotcha," Roger smirked as he jumped up, snagging a corner of the jumper, and yanking it down. 

He was successful in that it came down, smacking him in the face. However, with it, came a whole box of photographs, a picture frame, and a midsized grocery bag full of picture albums. 

"Fuck," Roger swore, staring down at the items in complete disbelief. How in the fuck was he going to get all of it back up where he'd left it without John noticing?

Crouching down, he began to shove the photos back into the box, careful not to bend them or touch the glossy finish. But the moment he picked up the first handful, he stopped, staring in confusion down at his own face squished next to John's. He flipped it over to the next photo, this time just him grinning at the camera. The next, John, looking rather displeased, Roger's hand holding his cheeks tightly. Next. The two of them curled up on a couch, their heads bent together in sleep. Next. John from behind, but in Roger's fur coat. Roger hugging John. Roger and John drunk at a party, winking at the camera over glasses of beer. The two of them eating orange slices, showing off orange rind teeth. John asleep on the bus. Roger attempting to pour tea. John tuning his bass. Roger in John's lap. John laughing while Roger wrapped an arm around his waist. John and Roger. John and Roger. John and Roger. 

John and Roger kissing. Roger was half on John, one hand threaded through John's hair, the other tight on his waist. It wasn't a kiss between friends, or even a kiss you'd give as a joke. It was a _kiss_. One between lovers. 

Roger dropped the photos.

In the films, your memory comes back in some dramatic fashion full of tears and pain and a sequence of someone shaking apart while they clutch at their brain, agonized by the rush of memories. The amnesiac panics and flutters, weeping as it all comes back, hitting them over and over like a tsunami of pain and memory.

It was not like that for Roger. For Roger, they returned with a half sigh and the relief of finally coming home. It was like the missing piece that had been gone for so long finally snapped back into place, the key slipped into the lock, his compass finally pointed north. He picked up the photograph and his head broke through the surf, and finally, finally, he could breathe again. Out of the water and onto the shore. Between one second and the next, he felt whole after months and months of feeling empty and broken, searching for everything he had lost. 

Roger rocked back onto his heels, collapsing on to the ground in muted shock as it all came back. Everything from their fights to their relationship to every damn dream he’d had and written off as a fantasy. John—his John—not Dominique. All of it, everything he had thought was true was wrong. It was all wrong, all of it. Dominique was wrong. Just being John's friend was wrong. Not loving John was wrong. 

"Holy shit," he whispered, crouching down to trace the photo with shaking fingers. Freddie had taken it, in '79. They'd been over at Brian's for dinner and Scrabble, stretching it late into the night. Roger had been complaining about it being late and wanting to go home, but John had been winning and didn't want to forfeit. Roger had crawled into his lap and murmured all the dirty things he was going to do him when they got home. After one particularly filthy suggestion, John had given in and kissed him, licking deep into his mouth just long enough for Freddie to snap the pic, before throwing in his tiles and dragging a smug Roger home. 

Because they still lived together. Not as friends, as partners. Boyfriends, lovers, paramours, as John's Kept Man. They were together, had been since January 21, 1978— _Roger had missed their anniversary_. He'd forgotten it, laid up in bed and sickly and John had never said anything. 

"John," Roger murmured, dropping the picture again. "John!" 

He had to call John, he had to see him. Scrambling to his feet, he practically flew out of the bedroom— _their bedroom_ —and down the stairs, stumbling as he skipped steps in his haste to get to the phone, to get to John. What would he say? It's me; I remember; I love you; how could I ever forget you? 

Grabbing hold of the banister, he swung himself around as he practically threw himself at the breakfront where they'd set up their phone. He completely knocked the receiver off the base in his haste to grab for it, forcing him to fumble for it like it was a bar of soap in the shower. When he finally managed to get his hands on it, he punched in the number for the studio, vibrating with excitement. 

Oh god, _John!_

Roger didn't know what he wanted to do first: kiss him, hug him, fuck him, tell him that he loved him. There was so much he needed to say, to do, but first he'd have to pick up the fucking phone. 

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, pick up, pick up, pick up," Roger chanted, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the phone rang. Tilting his head back in frustration, he caught sight of the painting. 

Dread washed over him. The _painting_. 

Roger froze, staring at the picturesque village as a sort of rage washed over him. That painting was never supposed to be there. He'd never even seen that painting, but it wasn't supposed to be there. Roger had chosen that spot for a reason; it was visible from the living room couch, the kitchen, the front door. It was perfect. And then John had gone and covered it up with a goddamn painting that he'd probably dug out of a thrift shop. 

He'd hung up the phone before he even realized what he'd done. 

John had covered it up—their relationship, their memories, everything—and never said a word. Even when he knew it was hurting Roger, when he knew how much he was struggling to remember, John had stood by and watched him suffer and hadn't done a goddamn thing. It suddenly felt like too much to be standing, and he collapsed onto the ground, falling onto his ass again.

He felt like a ship lost in a storm, tears burning in the back of his throat as he choked on the taste of salt. He and John, they had been, they were, they could be—

But they weren’t.

John hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even mentioned it in passing. He had held Roger at arms lengths with a shaken smile and pitiful glances, all the while knowing that they had been something. That John had been his home.

And now he had nothing, just false promises and memories that made sense in all the worst ways.

Suddenly, the house seemed too small and suffocating, the walls closing in around him as he struggled to breathe. Panic darkened at the edges of his vision.

“Ten,” he gasped. “Nine. Eight. S...seven. Six. Fi—fuck. Fuck. FUCK!”

Roger sat upright with a shout that came from the depths of his chest. Everything was a lie. Everything. He needed to breathe, he needed to get away, he needed—

Gingerly, he made his way up onto his knees and grabbed for the phone once more. With shaking fingers, Roger dialed for the studio, praying with all his might that he would pick up and help him.

“Please,” Roger whispered, never before a praying man. “Please pick up.”

_“Hello?”_

“I need you,” he said brokenly, horrified at the pathetic tininess of his voice. “Please, please." 

_“Oh fuck,”_ Crystal cursed. _“It happened, didn’t it.”_

“It was all a lie,” Roger whimpered. “It was all a fucking LIE!”

 _“I fucking told all of them that this was a horrible idea_ ,” Crystal continued. “ _You stay put, Rog, okay? I’m coming. I’m coming for you._ ”

“Don’t tell—”

 _Don’t tell Deacy,_ he wanted to say. 

_Don’t let him know that I know what he’s done._

_“I won’t,”_ Crystal promised, voice soft despite the wickedness of the whole situation. “ _I swear on my life, Rog, I won’t. You just hang in there, though, alright? I’m coming for you. I’m gonna make this all better, okay?_ " 

“Okay.” 

*

Crystal found him back on the bedroom floor, surrounded by the shoebox full of polaroids and memories that Roger knew would be hidden in the back of the closet. What used to be their closet, before all this. He was wearing the damned sweater, the sleeves pulled down over his hands like a child. Not even looking up as Crystal entered the bedroom, he pressed his fingers against their smiling faces, tracing the moments of their relationship trapped forever in film and Kodak color. He could practically hear John yelling at him about smudges and fingerprints, how the oils from his skin would ruin the photo. Roger found it hard for him to care.

“Shit,” Crystal cursed. “You found them.”

“Deacy never knew where to put ’em,” Roger explained woodenly. “Didn’t want something happening to them but couldn’t be arsed to throw together a bloody scrapbook. Carted them halfway across the world by now.”

“Roger—”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” he said, finally looking up at his friend. Whatever Crystal saw on his face pulled the corners of his mouth down.

“You don’t fuckin’ have to, okay, Rog? In fact, I’ve been waiting for this.” 

Without even a glance at the photos, Crystal crossed the room in six long strides before looping his hands under his arms and tugging him to his feet. He frogmarched Roger to the bed, dropping him unceremoniously like a naughty child.

“You have fifteen minutes to tell me exactly what you’ll need for the next couple of days, alright? Toiletries, medicine, clothing, anything. Fifteen minutes, that’s all I’m giving you.”

“I don’t even care anymore,” Roger said. And he didn’t. He'd stopped caring the moment he fell back onto the floor, the moment he found the entire documentation of their relationship banished to the back of a closet, tucked away behind old platformed boots and busted up sneakers like a dirty secret.

“That’s the spirit,” Crystal huffed as he wrestled his weekender bag—the one John gave him for his birthday their first year together—from under the bed. “I’m just gonna guess what you need, then, and you can’t get mad at me, no matter how shit it is.”

Crystal threw clothes into the bag without a second thought. Sweaters and t-shirts, a dress shirt or two. In went corduroy trousers and ripped jeans, a tie and a suit jacket. Too many pairs of underwear, and only one singular pair of flannel pajama pants that Roger didn’t even have the heart to admit were John’s, the soft green and white ones he'd loved so much. Next went his toothbrush, his migraine pills, and even his sole pair of glasses which he’d always refused to wear on principle, no matter how dignified John said he’d looked.

“These we won’t need,” Crystal snapped, chucking a strip of condoms back onto the bathroom counter. He hesitated, turning to watch Roger carefully. “Right?”

Something in the depths of his stomach tugged hard, curling his fists in anger. He wanted to scream _no!_ He wanted to throw the damn condoms into the trash and rail and shout at Crystal for even suggesting that he would cheat, not when he had John. But he couldn’t, because he didn’t. For the past three months they had lived as nothing more than friends—barely even that. Roommates. Strangers in the same home who shared a history only one knew. He wanted to pack the condoms, leave John hurting as much as he was, leave him wondering if Roger was finding solace in someone else’s arms.

The very thought turned his stomach. He looked away.

“No,” he said. “We don’t need those.”

Crystal visibly relaxed, “Thank Christ, Roger. I’ve heard enough of you having sex to last me a lifetime. I swear, you’ll be paying for my therapist when I finally decide to leave your ass.” Whatever Roger would have said was lost to the moment as Crystal immediately returned to the bedroom with a clap of his hands. “Right. So it’s gonna take us about six hours to get to Italy. Are you going out like that?”

Roger understood each of those words individually, but put together, they made little sense, “What?” 

Crystal rolled his eyes. “Christ, Roger, I get you got your head bashed in but I wasn’t aware it took away your ability to think. We’re going, I’m getting you out of here. Grab your shoes, write Deacy to let him know I’m not kidnapping you, and let’s go.”

Not for the first time throughout this entire nightmare, Roger found himself thanking every deity he could think of for Crystal.

“Yes,” Roger said, suddenly finding his voice again. “I’m ready.”

“About time, Taylor,” Crystal snapped with very little bite and an undercurrent of relief. “Jesus, fuckin’ drummers, you’re all divas, needing someone to hold your hand for everything.”

“You’re a drummer,” Roger muttered, eyes trailing down to the sprawl of photographs on the carpet again. 

Crystal scoffed, chucking the bag over his shoulder.

Roger let himself be pushed towards the kitchen where a pen and paper were already laid out waiting for him. Crystal instructed him to write something—anything—for John, just to prove that he wasn’t being gang-pressed into leaving, before he jogged down the front steps with the bag.

“If you’re not outside in five minutes, I’m gonna throw you over my shoulder and carry you out to the car, see if I don’t,” Crystal threatened. “Five minutes.”

He stared down the paper like he would a firing squad. There was so much he wanted to say. How could you fucking throw me out like garbage. How could you let me forget. How could you let me think we were nothing. Was this all so you could let me go? Did the past four years mean nothing?

He wanted to curse his very being. He wanted to make John hurt in the worst ways, now that he could remember all their insecurities and flaws, all the fights, all their ammunition, all their millions of little interactions and moments, he wanted to burn it all to the ground. He wanted John to feel as worthless as he felt staring at their photos. He wanted John to cry as he cried. He wanted, he wanted—

He wanted John. Not this John, who kept secrets and hid behind doctors and their friends. The John who promised him a blowjob over the breakfast table; the John who curled up against him while he slept like a cat seeking warmth; the John who, when he really started to laugh, would let out the tiniest little snort. The John whole promised to love him in sickness and in health, not lie to him and keep everything from him. The old John.

And so Roger watched the minutes count down, thinking of all he could say and knowing he never, ever would. When there were merely seconds left, he picked up the pen, and began to write.

By the time Crystal was honking the horn, Roger had turned from the table, leaving behind the flat without a backwards glance, letting the door swing shut behind him.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that happened
> 
>  
> 
> thanks to lo (devereauxing) who read through four different drafts of this fic, deleted about 800 commas, and cracked the whip when i needed it. you're the bomb dot com. big shout out to my local grocery store for 90cent wine and nonjudgemental cashiers. and last but not least thanks to all of you for being so patient! couldn't have done it without you guys
> 
> my favorite part of the day and of posting is reading your comments and incredibly kind words so please, be a dear, let me know what you think, what your favorite part was, or what you think will happen next!! i adore you all


	4. you would never break the chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The test was negative. 
> 
> John had never been a praying man, but he found himself in the moment thanking God and all the angels in heaven for their one little miracle. Next to him, Veronica hadn’t moved from her perch on the edge of the bathtub, where together they sat curled close to each other and hunched over the little plastic test that would decide the fate of the rest of their lives. 
> 
> “Shit,” John murmured, closing his eyes as he rocked forward to bury his face in the too-sweaty palms of his hands. “Shit, shit, _shit_.” 
> 
> “Thank God,” Veronica whispered next to him with a voice wet and thick with unshed tears. “Thank _God_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess it's finally a blue moon, eh? thank you so much to everyone who's stuck around; things have been insane and, well, its taken me a bit longer to get this chapter out than usual. in my defense, it is the longest one yet—so long, in fact, that i had to cut it in half (again) so this portion of the fic has grown from one chapter, to two, to now an unprecedented three. 
> 
> there is my first actual sex scene ever, so for those of you who have delicate sensibilities, prepare yourselves. i've also changed the tags, heed the warnings please. 
> 
> and thus begins act ii: john's version

The test was negative. 

John had never been a praying man, but he found himself in the moment thanking God and all the angels in heaven for their one little miracle. Next to him, Veronica hadn’t moved from her perch on the edge of the bathtub, where together they sat curled close to each other and hunched over the little plastic test that would decide the fate of the rest of their lives. 

“Shit,” John murmured, closing his eyes as he rocked forward to bury his face in the too-sweaty palms of his hands. “Shit, shit, _shit_.” 

“Thank God,” Veronica whispered next to him with a voice wet and thick with unshed tears. “Thank _God_.” 

Hysteria rose in John’s chest, and he fought the urge to let it bubble out in peals of uncontained laughter. Instead, he swallowed it back down with a shaky breath and a wet cough, “We dodged a bullet, Ron.” 

“Shit,” Veronica echoed, still unmoved from her position curled up next to him. Her face was pressed to the stiff ball of his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck. He could smell her perfume, sickly and flowery and so familiar. “John, what would we have _done?_ ” 

“Doesn’t matter,” John said breathlessly, relief making him almost drunk in the aftermath. “Because you’re not—you’re not pregnant. We don’t have to worry about it.” 

Next to him, Veronica let out her own hysterical giggle, loud in the silence of the bathroom. It built slowly, and then quickly, until she was doubled over, practically rolling on the floor as it flowed out of her like waves and waves of laughter. It was manic and terrifying, and yet John couldn’t help but join her, letting his own panic and fear explode from his chest in laugher. They could have been _parents_. Them, the two of them, barely twenty-two and unable to put food on the table most nights. They didn’t even live together, weren’t married. And yet, there was a chance that they—that they might have been—

John snorted. Veronica howled. 

It felt like it went on for an age, years and years of pure hysteria until, suddenly, it stopped. Veronica’s laughter ended as quickly as it had arrived, sliding whip-lash fast into tears as the whole weight of what might have been crashed over them like a tidal wave. She curled up until her forehead pushed against her knees as she wept, shoulder shaking and chest heaving. 

“Hey,” John murmured, crawling down to sit next to her. “Hey, no, Veronica, shhh, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” 

She said nothing; there was nothing to be said. Instead, she curled into him, pressing her face—hot and wet—into the curve of his neck, holding onto him for all he was worth. And John, just as desperate for comfort, held her right back.

*

They didn’t speak about it. 

Once Veronica finished her tears, she pulled away from him with a little sniffle, unfolding so as to wash the tear stains from her face with cold water. Without even looking at the test, she told him tersely to throw it away before she left the bathroom, making her way to start on dinner. 

For two weeks they avoided it like the plague, dancing around it with tight smiles and unreadable glances. On the nights that Veronica was able to sneak out of her apartment they slept side by side, barely touching. Sometimes he woke with his arms open and outstretched, as though he had been holding her in his sleep, but her side of the bed lay cold. Others, he woke still in the same position, her back turned to him. They danced around it like a crack in the earth, each one moving closer and closer to the edge before they carefully maneuvered themselves away from that gnawing pit of what might have been. 

There was so much that John wanted to say, but he didn’t know how. What could he say? I’m sorry for what happened? I’m not sorry? I love you, I know this hurts, we can get past this? Nothing he said would undo what happened, would make this right. And so he swallowed it down, keeping it tight in the base of his chest, ignoring the way it wanted to burst from him like a horse at the races. 

Until. 

Until the dam broke. 

Veronica had come for dinner, helping him prepare a roast with a fake smile and a too-cheery attitude. From an outside glance they looked like a normal couple preparing a Friday night dinner, two peas in a pod working in harmony. But it was as though they were playing the same notes on different keys. No matter how hard they fought to match, they were always in a different tune. 

As they sat across the table, John couldn’t help but feel as though he were shouting across the Channel to her. A foot at best, but between them a whole ocean. He cut off a too-big piece of meat, shoving it in his mouth so as to prevent himself from saying anything unwarranted ss if, through silence, he could preserve the vestiges of the relationship they'd had just a fortnight ago; the relationship they'd had just a fortnight ago in which each word and action hadn't needed to be measured and weighed for the danger it posed to their vessel which rocked unmoored and unsteady on rocky waves. It didn’t matter, in the long run. 

Veronica lowered her knife and fork, staring at him with a gaze too heavy for him to carry. 

“John,” she said carefully. “What would you have done?” 

John chewed slowly, not even pretending to play dumb. They both knew what she meant. He frowned, “I would have done right by you. Would have bought a ring, called your father, tried to reason with Norman for a bigger stipend. If you...if you had kept it.” 

“I would have,” Veronica said quickly, looking away for a beat before returning his gaze. “I would have kept—I would have kept the baby.” 

John swallowed, ducking his head to nod, “I think...I think I would have wanted you to. I’d’ve done anything you wanted, anything for...for it.” 

"I know," said Veronica, her voice wavering with tears she was only just beginning to shed. John watched from his end of the table, aching to reach out and hold her hand, but something kept him back. "I know you would have."

"But it's okay, because you're not. We've—we've got time. We can wait for a better time." 

Veronica was silent, too silent. And then, "What if there isn't a better time?" 

"What?" The breath was knocked out of him, and he struggled to regain his composure as his mind turned her words over. “What do you mean?” 

She cleared her throat, sniffling once before tucking her hair behind her ears. With a deep breath, she looked up at him, her eyes watery and red, "What if there isn't a better time. For us. Or a baby. I mean, imagine if I was—we'd...John, we'd be ruined." 

It felt like he'd been smacked in the face. Recoiling, he tried to understand what she meant. "Ronnie," he said, his voice shaking. "Ronnie, what do you mean?" 

“John, if I _was_ —”

“But you aren’t—”

“ _But if I was!_ I would be a single mother. Not,” she said, holding up a hand to cut him off as he went to interrupt. “Because you wouldn’t do the right thing and support our child, but because you would never be here. You’d always have Queen, always be working, or touring, or recording. And that’s okay! That’s part of why I fell in love with you! But all this has made me realize; I don’t want that. I don’t want to raise a family on my own for six months or a year. I want a husband who will come home every night. A husband who will eat dinner with us and help me tuck the children into bed. But you can’t do that for me, and I would _never_ ask that of you.”

John swallowed, his mouth impossibly dry and clenched his hands together tightly, “Veronica, what—what are you saying?” 

“I’m saying—” She, too, seemed to have trouble breathing as she choked on a shuddering sob. “I’m saying maybe this is for the best. That we...that we end it here. Before it gets harder.” 

“If you want to have a baby,” John found himself saying with a voice that seemed too calm to be real. “We can. I—”

“I don’t want a baby,” Veronica managed to wrangle out around a sob. “I don’t want a baby, I don’t want want a wedding, I want someone who will be there and that’s not you!” 

“I have never given you any reason to doubt how I feel about you!” John cried, losing his cool for one split second. “Ronnie, I would give you the whole _world_.” His voice cracked, betraying him. 

“I know,” Veronica said, her voice thick and syrupy with tears. “I know, but it’s not enough because it’s not the world that I want. I can’t ask you to give up Queen, and I can’t ask you to stay.” 

“If you want me to, I will.” 

“I don’t.” 

“We can—”

“We _can’t_.” 

“Veronica,” John said. “Veronica, I love you.” 

“I love you, too, John. But it’s not enough.” 

“Why can’t it be? Why can’t we just go back to the way we were, the way things were?” John felt as if he were standing on new ground, some strange land where nothing made sense. 

Veronica shook her head, reaching up to swipe her face clean with the back of one hand. “We can’t, John. And even if we could, we’d just be holding off the inevitable. There is no way back.” 

“And there’s no future,” John said stiffly. 

Veronica flinched, but nodded. 

“If...if we had this child,” Veronica said carefully. “It would ruin us.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Because no matter how much you want it, it can’t work,” Veronica continued brokenly. The wretchedness which coloured her voice betrayed the pain the conversation was causing her, the kind of pain John had always sworn that he would keep from her; however, her staunch perseverance in the face of said pain told him, even as he fought to find another way, that it was a necessary pain — the kind of pain which could not be avoided, only survived . “We will never work out. You would resent me, or the child—”

“I would _never_ —”

“Or I would resent you,” she finished, voice firm. John stopped in his place, shocked. “I would always wonder, what would my life be like? If this hadn’t happened? And I can’t, I can’t have that. This is how it has to be.” 

There was nothing more to be said. How could John ever even argue with that? They had both laid their hearts on the table, thrown down their cards, and now they had to fold. There was nowhere to go. 

“Can—” John paused, stuttered for breath, and continued. “Can we just pretend? For tonight.” Veronica hesitated, and he added, softer, “Please?” 

“Yes,” Veronica said after a moment that felt like an eon. “Yes, we can.” 

John ducked his head in a nod, steadied himself with a deep breath, before picking up his knife and fork, and continuing his meal. 

When they finished they worked side by side at the sink, idly chatting about things they’d heard on the radio, what her plans for Christmas were, how the new record was coming along. Once the pots were scrubbed and the plates dried, they both found themselves desperate to continue their conversation and so they moved to the couch, sitting side by side and talking about everything and anything, stretching out their last night together as long as they could. 

By the time the sun was beginning to creep over the buildings, they were exhausted and tired, their throats raspy and sore from talking through the night. John wanted desperately to continue; who knew when he would ever see her again? 

Reason won over want, however, and he found himself helping her to her feet, carefully assisting her back into her coat, taking the time to memorize the fall of her hair over her shoulders, the smell of her perfume, the pattern of freckles on the nape of her neck. He fought the urge to lay his lips to them one last time, to feel the warmth of her skin under his own as the scent of her filled his lungs and left the ghost of her taste laying on his tongue. 

“Goodbye, John,” Veronica said, quiet in the early morning light. “Good luck.” 

“Goodbye, Ronnie,” he echoed, his throat tight. There was a pause wherein neither knew what to do, before she stretched to her tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck, holding him as though she wanted to memorize every inch of him. John clutched her just as tight, struggling to maintain his composure. They stood there in the doorway for days, nights, entire lifetimes before he pulled away, carefully untangling her arms from his neck and stepping back. 

“Goodbye, Ronnie,” he repeated. 

She didn’t say another word, merely turned the handle to the door, stepped into the hallway, and disappeared into that same night she had arrived on; a spectre of timelessness holding between her hands a lifespan’s possibility and heartbreak all turned to dust on the rising of the dawn. 

John didn’t know how long he stood there, watching where she once was, breathing in the faint remains of her perfume. When he could no longer smell her, could no longer feel the press of her body along his, he made his way to his bedroom, throwing himself face down onto the bed and burying his face into his pillow. 

He didn’t dream.

*

It took three days for him to go back into the studio. Three days where he fought the urge to call her, to call her parents and beg for her to come home, for her to give him one more chance. When he wasn’t sleeping, he was drinking away his troubles with a bottle of bathtub gin. There was so much left unsaid that he wanted to cry from the weight of it sitting heavy in his head. He wanted to tell her it all. That she was wrong; that she was right; that they could make it work; that he had always known, deep down, that it wouldn’t. 

He gave himself three days to wallow and to weep and to lie pathetically on the bathroom floor before he cleaned himself up and headed back to the studio wearing a shirt he took from the overflowing laundry basket and a pair of jeans that had smelled the cleanest. With a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose to keep the worst of the light from his hangover, he slunk into the practice room, making sure to keep to himself in the corner. 

It became a routine, stumbling home from the studio to drown his sorrows with a bottle of gin only to wake up the next morning and drag himself back in. He brushed off invitations to dinner or drinks with a wave of his hand or shake of his head and kept to himself. It wasn’t hard; Brian and Freddie were too busy fighting over their next song to pay attention, while Roger focused only on keeping them from killing each other. John used his anonymity to his own advantage until the day his luck ran out. 

John should have realized that there was no chance in hell that the others wouldn’t eventually catch onto the fact that he was steadily working his way onto a new liver. Roger had always been nosy, wanting to know everything about everyone. In the music business, it was a valuable trait; if you always had a finger on the pulse, you’d be able to follow the ever changing flow and adapt to match it. In a friendship, it had a tendency to come off more as an annoyance than benefit — the only exception, perhaps, being Freddie, who took Roger’s overbearing nosiness in stride as the sort of ever-present attention he craved. 

He had been halfway out the door to return to his bed and bottle of gin when Roger stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“Deaks! Where’re you running off to?” he asked, grinning sunnily. It took John a moment to square his features into something more human than the grimace he felt burgeoning on his lips. 

“Just busy,” he shrugged, inching his way closer to the door. 

“Look, I was thinking of hitting up the pub, grabbing a drink or two. Brian’s got a date with Chrissie, and Freddie’s got an early morning interview, so you’re my only hope. What’d you say?” 

John furrowed his brow, “Say?” 

Roger tossed his head back with a laugh as though John had said the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Don’t play coy with me, Deaks! Drinks! You and me, that little shithole pub down the road. C’mon, first round’s on me!” 

The thought of being out in public made his stomach turn. He shook his head, “No thanks, Roger. I don’t think I’d be very good company tonight.” 

“Nonsense, you’re always good company as far as I’m concerned,” Roger said, still bright and cheery. “If you’re feeling blue, the best thing is to spend time with your friends. So, c’mon, you and me, a pint or six, and we can talk about whatever is bothering you.” 

John hesitated, and Roger, sensing weakness, pounced on it with an added; “I’ll throw in an order of Scotch eggs. C’mon, John. Just a drink.” 

He was so prepared to shake him off, tell him no, and return to his room, that it was a shock to hear himself agree. “Alright,” he said with a shrug of his shoulder. “One drink.” 

One drink turned into three, then six, before he lost count somewhere in the middle. The night had begun a tad awkward, with the two of them trying to find even footing, before Roger threw caution to the wind and launched into an incredibly filthy story from his uni days that had John torn between gaping in shock and bursting into laughter. 

It was easy after that, to sit across from a dirtied pub booth and shoot the shit with Roger, the two of them falling back into the comfortable rhythm that had been missing ever since Veronica walked out his front door with all his hopes and dreams held in her hands. John hadn’t realised how much he’d missed Roger’s easy company, his blind adoration and appreciation of his friends that made you feel like you were the most important person in his world. It was nice, comforting. He was so relaxed and at ease that he didn’t even notice it had all been a set up until it was too late. 

“So,” Roger said around a mouthful of too greasy chips he’d liberally drenched in malted vinegar. “When were you going to tell us that you and Veronica had called it quits.” John froze, the brim of his pint glass sticking to his bottom lip. Roger shrugged sheepishly, “I ran into her in at the shops. You can imagine my surprise when she mentioned that it had been almost three weeks since the break up. I had to think quickly on my feet, cover up the fact that I didn’t know.” 

John lowered the glass, avoiding Roger’s gaze, “Well, now you know.” 

“That’s not the point, Deacy. The point is that you and Veronica broke up three weeks ago and you didn’t bother mentioning it to anyone,” Roger argued, downing the rest of his beer with ease. “Christ, what’s a man gotta do to get another beer around here?” 

Roger twisted in his seat, trying to flag down their waitress. John made to move, to sneak out of the booth while his back was turned, but Roger didn’t make it to where he was by being an idiot. 

“If you try to sneak out, I’ll just come after you,” Roger said lightly, not even bothering to look at him. “I’ve already prepaid the bartender, so there’s not worrying about running out on a tab.” 

“Looks like you’ve got everything figured out, then,” John said bitterly. Roger managed to catch the waitress’ eye, and he gestured at their empty glasses. 

“Don’t be so difficult,” Roger sighed, twisting back to face him now that the promise of more beer had been made. “I thought we were friends, John. Friends tell their friends when their hearts get broken, alright?” 

John stiffened, “Who said my heart’s broken?” 

Roger leveled him with a rather unimpressed glare. “John,” he said slowly. “You’ve worn those trousers for the past week. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the epic hangover you’ve been sporting nearly everyday. What, are you trying to drink yourself to death?” 

“No,” John said petulantly as he shrunk down in his seat. He was starting to feel a little like a small child being scolded by his mother, a feeling he was none too fond of at the best of times, let alone when he was receiving it from a man who had been known, on more than one occasion, to eat actual baby food. 

“Besides, you’re going about this all wrong. You’re never going to get over Veronica on your own at this rate,” Roger shrugged. John opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the arrival of their beers being placed before them with a flirty wink from their waitress. 

“Cheers, love, you’re the best,” Roger grinned, returning her wink. The waitress blushed, flustered, before scurrying back to the bar, throwing an appreciative gaze over her shoulder. Roger, either oblivious or accustomed to the effect he had on women, reached for his glass with a satisfied hum. 

“What do you mean?” John asked, running his finger around the rim of his own pint. Roger cocked an eyebrow. “About getting over her,” John clarified. 

“Oh,” said Roger. “Well, you’re not giving yourself enough distance. There’s an art to it, y’see? You can’t be trying to forget her when you’re holed up in the flat the two of you practically shared. And, you can’t be drinking yourself until the table alone. No one’s there to slap you out of your wallowing.” 

“I don’t wallow.” 

“Bullshit, everyone wallows,” Roger laughed. “You need friends, someone who will pick you up when you find yourself slipping back into the break up spiral.” John let his unimpressed face speak for himself, knocking another laugh out of Roger. “You’re spiraling, John. You need to be kept distracted. I know if it were up to you, you’d lock yourself up in a cabin in the woods and lick your wounds clean until you feel more human, but that’s not healthy for you. You need a good, clean, managed recovery bender.” 

“No.” 

Roger pressed on, completely ignoring him, “And that’s where I come in! I promise you, give me a month and you won’t even remember Veronica’s name, let alone that she dumped you.” 

John winced, “She didn’t dump me, it was mutual.” 

Roger leveled him with a measured look, before slowly drawling, “Sure, John. Whatever you say. Now, what do you think?” 

“Absolutely not,” John shook his head. “I’m handling it just fine on my own, I don’t need your help.” 

Roger nodded, leaning back to stretch out against the edge of the booth, draping his elbows over the back in the perfect picture of carefree. “Offer’s freestanding, John. No expiration date. Whenever you decide you want my help—”

“Which I won’t.” 

“—I’ll be there for you,” Roger continued as though John hadn’t interrupted. Whatever John wanted to say next was cut off by him sitting upright with a clap of his hands, his grin turning wicked in the darkened pub. “Now, what d’you think? Think I can get with the waitress?” 

John twisted in time to catch her staring unabashedly at Roger, her gaze heavy. He snorted, returning to his beer. There was no woman on earth who wouldn’t fall victim to Roger’s charm. 

Bastard.

*

When the offer was first presented to him, John had been steadfast in his refusal. It wasn’t the first heartbreak he’d ever been through. Granted, he had never really pictured himself marrying any of his previous girlfriends the way he had with Veronica. Nor had he been with any of them as long as he had Veronica. But that didn’t mean that he needed help getting over her. He just needed another week or two with the gin, and then he’d be good as new. 

Or so he hoped. 

It took him four days and one incredibly embarrassing affair wherein he found one of Veronica’s tubes of lipstick under his bedside table and spent the night a weeping mess on the floor before he approached Roger, hat in hand. 

They had just finished practice and John was man enough to admit that it hadn’t been his best one yet. He was still shaky from the breakdown he’d had the night before, and he’d struggled to keep his mind off Veronica and on the track they were working on.It was hard, and it showed. His fingers stumbled over the notes, and it felt like he couldn’t get it to connect. He was off, slow, unable to match his rhythm to Roger’s beat, and it showed. Practice couldn’t have been over soon enough for his comfort. 

Ignoring the worried glances Freddie threw his way once they’d decided to call it a day, John made his way over to where Roger was resting on his drum stool, chugging water from a cold glass. 

“Hey Roger,” John said carefully, looking just over Roger’s shoulder. Roger raised a hand in greeting, still distracted by the water. Despite the fact that it was late November, the practice room was hot and stuffy, leaving Roger, who had spent the whole practice making up for John’s subpar performance, sweaty and panting. “So, I was uh, I was thinking about what you said. Last week. In the pub.” 

Roger lowered the glass with a gasp, nodding quickly, “Okay. What did you decide?” 

John was glad that Roger didn’t make him beg, or even drag it out. Lesser people would have made John spell it out for them, but not Roger. There was no mockery, or teasing. Just carefully attentive eyes and a slight uptick of the corner of his mouth. 

Steadying himself with a deep breath, John readied himself for the leap of faith; “I think you’re right.” 

Roger grinned, quick, bright, and easy, “Perfect! Let me grab my jacket and we can swing by your apartment for your stuff, alright? I promise you, you’re not gonna regret this, Deaks. You’ll see, you’ll be feeling better in absolutely no time!” 

John found himself nodding along, following behind him, until— “What do you mean, get my stuff? Roger? Roger!”

*

Roger took control of packing up John a suitcase of absolute necessities for the first week of “Veronica Detox”. Most of the things he packed were the basics, but a few others made their way into the box. A picture of the two of them from their last anniversary, a few half-empty bottles of gin, a couple records that Roger didn’t own, and a book or two. Once the bag was packed, Roger ushered him out the door and into his car, chattering the whole while about all sorts of nonsense. 

John let it wash over him, listening to him prattle on and on while he rested his head against the window. He closed his eyes, letting himself doze off until they arrived, announced only by Roger slapping him against his shoulder and startling him out of his nap. 

“We’re home!” Roger said, throwing himself from the driver’s seat with way too much energy after a long day of practice. John felt like his whole body weighed a thousand pounds; he wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and sleep for a week. 

Keeping quiet, he slowly got out of the car and made his way to the trunk where he collected his suitcase with a small grunt. Roger led him up the steps to his apartment building, continuing his running commentary about nothing important in the slightest. John followed him into the apartment, tuning out most of what he was saying in favor of heading to Freddie’s old room which had been left untouched since he’d moved in with Mary. 

“It’s not much,” Roger said uncertainly as he showed him around the flat as though John had never stepped foot in the flat before. Although, to be fair, he’d never been there under these circumstances, let alone this sober. “Kitchen’s here, bathroom’s down the hall—we’ll have to share. There’s no curfew, the neighbors are nice, and well, I don’t know why I’m prattling on and on, you’ve been here before enough to know all this.” 

“It’s great, Rog, honestly. Thanks again for letting me stay here,” John smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll make sure to keep out of your hair.” 

Roger laughed, rubbing at the back of neck, “Why bother? It’s not like it’ll be any different from tour!” He shook out his arms, as if to bodily dispel the odd nervous energy he’d taken on showing John his living space, “Now, is that what you’re wearing out?” 

John startled, “What?” 

“Out! We’re going out! You and me!” Roger snapped his fingers to get him to hurry. “Honestly, Deaks, we discussed this before! What, have you lost your mind?” 

“Roger, I don’t want to go out, I just want to go to bed,” John sighed, beginning to feel the start of a migraine creeping up behind his eyes. 

“Nope, sorry, no going to sleep just yet,” Roger insisted, shoving past him to start in on his suitcase. “Besides, we’re not going _out_ out. But you do need to get out of those clothes. _Especially_ the jeans.” 

“No, Rog, c’mon—”

“I am not taking no for an answer,” Roger said loudly, pulling out his clothes. “Here, this top will do. And for Christ’s sake, Deacy, please change your trousers!” 

John scowled, snatching the aforementioned shirt from his hands, “I’m not changing into anything if you’re going to stand there watching!” 

Roger grinned lavisciously, looking him up and down, “Shame, was really looking forward to a bit of a show.” 

There was no way in hell John was going to be able to fight off the blush working its way down his chest, only causing his scowl to deepen, “ _Out_ , Roger!” 

He left, tossing a laugh over his shoulder as he did, the door slamming behind him. John collapsed onto his bed with a deep sigh, burying his face in his hands. What the hell had he gotten himself into? 

In the ten minutes it took him to get dressed, he managed to go through all five stages of grief before finally accepting that this was now his future. Life with Roger was only going to be one big speed hump after another; they’d all heard Brian moan about the horrific two weeks he’d been forced to stay with Roger waiting for his boiler to be replaced. According to Brian, it was on par with living with a child that had access to both alcohol and cigarettes. Freddie assured him that most of it was an exaggeration, but considering that John had had to teach Freddie to how work a can opener, he wasn’t exactly confident in his opinion. However, it was infinitely better than the shit show he’d faced following Veronica’s departure. 

_Veronica_. 

For the whole three hours he’d spent with Roger, he hadn’t thought of her once. But now, thinking of how he’d ended up in his predicament, it brought tears to his eyes and a thick, itchy feeling in the back of his throat. Taking a deep breath, he fought to regain his control, closing his eyes against the onslaught of tears and struggling to return to his previous sense of calm. 

Once, after his father had died, his mother had taken both him and Julie to a therapist. It was out of their budget, and something they normally never would have been able to afford or even wish to do, but his mother had grown despondent hearing the two of them cry themselves to sleep every night. The therapist was a kindly old man who had smelled heavily of pipe tobacco and mint tea, with a bushy moustache that had seemed to jump about of its own accord as he spoke. After listening to John carefully fight back his tears talking about how much he missed his father, the therapist offered him some advice. When John felt as though he were on the verge of tears, he should close his eyes, count backwards from ten, and try to match his breathing to the numbers. 

It sounded like a load of horseshit at the time, but in the years since it had grown to be the most helpful advice he had received. Whenever John felt as though he were about to lose his steadily maintained cool, he would retreat to carefully and calmly count out his breath until he was, once again, back in control. 

“Ten,” John whispered shakily, his fingers flexing into the wrinkles of his corduroys. “Nine, eight, seven, six...five, four, three, two, one.” He exhaled, and relaxed. The urge to cry dissipated, his composure returned. 

“John!” Roger bellowed, thumping on the door. “Are you ready?” 

“Here goes nothing,” John mumbled before slowly getting to his feet. He considered ignoring him and returning to his bed, but knew that if he didn’t show his face, Roger would kick down the door and drag him out. Roger was an unstoppable force, and John had already proved himself to be a pretty shabby unmovable object.

Roger was leaning against the wall, inspecting the skin around his nails. When he heard the door open, he looked up, blinding John with that same damned grin, toothy and white. 

“Perfect,” Roger exclaimed with a clap of his hands. “Let’s get this show on the road!” 

John once again felt that same migraine coming back, “Roger, you haven’t even told me what we’re doing.” 

Roger shrugged, effortless in his dismal. Mimicking Freddie’s tone, he leered, “Worry not, dearest John! I assure you it will be a grand old time!” 

“I’m going to give it thirty minutes,” John scowled. Roger’s grin dropped slightly before it returned at fullforce. 

“Thirty minutes is all I’ll need!” he crowed, grabbing at his arm and tugging him out of the apartment towards the street. 

“Roger,” John said carefully as he was led further away from the flat. “Where are you taking me?” 

“The local cinema is playing _Planet of the Apes_ ,” Roger said excitedly, still tugging him down the street. ““Did you know my sister and I snuck into the theater to see if back in ‘68? I thought her eyes were going to bug right out of her head when the apes first came on screen, Christ, we’d never seen anything like it! My mum was so upset when she’d found out I took Clare, 'cause of the nudity, y’see. She went on and on for just about _years_ , about how Clare was too young for such things. Did you see it in cinema?” 

“What?” John furrowed his brow. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“ _Planet of the Apes!_ ” Roger reached over to thwap John on the back of his head, smirking slightly before he ducked out of the way of John’s return hit. “Are you even listening to me?” 

“No,” John answered honestly, just to watch Roger sputter in indignation. 

Roger, however, recovered quickly, and chose to ignore John in favor of leaping over a rather large puddle so as not to sully his sneakers. “Tonight they’ve got a movie special just for before the dinner rush,” he continued. “If we hurry, we can make it!” 

John rolled his eyes as he dug his feet into the pavement, trying and failing to slow Roger down, “I don’t want to go see it, I’ve seen it already!” 

“Not like this you haven’t,” Roger insisted, tugging at his wrist. “Besides, you said you’d give me thirty minutes! Promise you’ll have fun, alright?” 

Begrudgingly, John caved, allowing Roger to lead him towards the cinema. Roger, ever the gentleman, paid for John’s ticket but forced him to shell out for a popcorn, which was much less than tickets but still burned a sizable hole in John’s wallet. They still weren’t making any money through Trident, and after his bender, John needed to save every penny he had. He couldn’t be spending it on popcorn or films he’d already seen. 

Roger ushered him into the darkened theater, leading him up to the very back. Unlike the first time John had seen the film, the theater was dark and empty, the only other patrons being a couple who were already necking a few rows below them and a group of rowdy teens who were tossing their own popcorn all over the room. 

“What are we doing here?” John snapped, beginning to lose his patience. 

“Oh, unclench, John,” Roger rolled his eyes. “Wait for the lights to go down and I’ll show you a good time.” 

John’s indignant sputter was cut off by the movie beginning, the lights dimming considerably. Not, however, enough for John to miss the waggle of Roger’s eyebrows and pleased smirk. John sunk down in his seat, his ears burning, choosing instead to busy himself with a handful or two of popcorn. 

Charlton Heston had just crash landed on the alien planet when Roger pulled something out of his jacket pocket, passing it over to John with a nudge and a wink. John took it, holding it up to the little light supplied by the theater. How Roger had managed to sneak an entire bottle of vodka into the theater, John didn’t know, but he was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Toasting Roger in thanks, he took a pull from the bottle, wincing at the burn. Cheap vodka was still vodka, and despite the burn it would do its job. John took another breath stealing pull before he passed it back to Roger. 

They spent the movie passing the bottle back and forth in between handfuls of popcorn. Roger talked through most of the movie, but the majority of his commentary was smart and clever. Most of what he said was whatever John was thinking himself, remarks on costuming or set design, plot holes that Roger had picked up on that John hadn’t even considered. John found himself having fun, growing more and more interested in a film that he had previously written off as a one-time wonder. 

Any time one of the apes said something Roger found particularly interesting, or even memorable, he would nudge John and insist he drink, edging him into drinking more and more, until, before he even knew what was happening, the destroyed Statue of Liberty was appearing on the screen before their drunken eyes. 

The lights flicked on, blinding them. Roger groaned, stretching broadly before scratching at his belly. 

“I’m pissed,” he announced. “And I want chips.” 

“Mmmmm,” John hummed, reaching up to rub at his eye. “Chips sound nice.” 

“Let’s go get some,” Roger insisted, struggling to get himself upright again off the stiff theater seat. He rolled onto his feet, sending the kernels of popcorn left in the carton all over the floor. John didn’t even bother to hide his laughter, causing Roger to pout, “Hey, don’t be mean to me, Deacy!” 

“I would never,” John said solemnly, his words betrayed by the snort of laughter that followed. Roger flicked him on the forehead, causing John to swat at his hand. 

“Get up,” Roger demanded, reaching out to grab at John’s arms and tug at him until he, too, was standing, the two of them swaying slightly. “There’s a chippy right down the street by the pub. We can be there and back ‘fore you know it.” 

“Alright, but you’re buying,” John grumbled, following him precariously out of the theater. “And I want mine with gravy.” 

“You drive a hard bargain, Deaks, but I accept,” Roger laughed, stepping into him and knocking their shoulders together.

*

John awoke the next morning tucked into bed, his mouth dry from too much cheap vodka, but without the same lingering headache he’d had for the past two weeks. Yawning, he forced himself out of bed, padding down the hall to the kitchen. 

Roger was sat at the kitchen table eating cornflakes out of a bowl while reading the newspaper. 

“Morin’,” he called, flicking the pages. “Kettles on the stove, milk in the fridge. Try not to use it all, though, else we won’t have enough for tomorrow’s tea.” 

“Do you have any bread for toast?” John asked, squinting around the kitchen for sight of the toaster. 

Roger huffed out a laugh as he picked up his mug, “Sure, I’ve got the bread. The question should be whether or not I’ve got a toaster. Freddie got it in the divorce, and I haven’t had the funds for a new one.” 

John scowled, “I thought you said the kitchen was fully stocked.” 

“It is!” Roger protested, hurt. “I’ve got a stove, a fridge, a freezer, and a kettle. Plus, a can opener! What more could I want?” 

John reached up to open the cupboard he could vaguely remember having once drunkenly scavenged for jam in with Freddie once upon a time. He blinked in at the expanse of emptiness that met him, a lone Bovril cube sat pride of place on the top most shelf while the second shelf had as its only occupant a jumbo box of homebrand cornflakes. Behind him, Roger turned the page of his newspaper as John turned to the fridge. Swinging the door open he peered in hopefully, only to be met by the sad sight of precisely three slices of bread (two of which were crusts), and what could generously be described as a thimble of milk. He slammed the fridge door closed.

“Jesus!” Roger yelped, letting his spoon clatter into his bowl which, John could now see, hadn’t even had milk in it. “What’s up with you?”

The look John gave him was nothing less than scathing. The headache he’d been so happy to have escaped just a few minutes earlier came back at full force, and he pinched at the bridge of his nose in an attempt to fight it off. 

“Get dressed,” he snapped. “We’re going to my apartment. Fully stocked kitchen, my ass. Christ Roger, how did you ever survive without me?” 

Roger merely shrugged but did as he was told, knocking back the rest of his tea before scurrying to his room to get dressed. John allowed himself thirty seconds to regain his patience before he followed him down the hall. 

Once they’d returned from John’s apartment with a box of kitchen necessities, John made himself a thick slice of toast with extra jam and butter while Roger busied himself with the kettle. 

“I like mine with two lumps,” John said dryly, reaching over to pick up Roger’s abandoned newspaper. 

“Uh,” said Roger, freezing in place. “Did you bring sugar with you?”

*

It took Freddie and Brian another four days to figure out that John had moved into Freddie’s old room. Four days wherein Roger dragged him out all over the city, ending each day with too much booze and the perfect amount of greasy food. 

“Don’t forget, we have a meeting with Norman tomorrow morning about the upcoming tour dates,” Brian reminded them all as they were packing up to leave for the night. Roger, who had abandoned his drums in favor of doing his best to bully John into going with him to the arcade, rolled his eyes. 

“Great,” he grunted, unimpressed. “I love a good whipping in the morning. Shall I bring the salt for my wounds, or do you think he’ll provide it himself? No, I’d better bring my own, wouldn’t want to get charged for my own humiliation.” 

“Ha, ha,” Brian snorted sarcastically. “Speak like that to him and there goes our chances of bartering for a larger stipend. The meeting is at nine o’clock sharp, so I expect everyone to be ready to go by eight twenty-five. Freddie, that means you as well.” 

“Lies and slander, I’ve never been late a day in my life,” Freddie drawled, not even bothering to look up from his notebook. 

“You were thirty minutes late today, and we even told you an earlier time,” John said measuredly. Next to him, Roger laughed. Freddie didn’t even bother with an excuse. 

“Shall I swing by and fetch you, John?” Brian asked. Brian’s apartment was closest in proximity to John’s and he was usually the first to offer him a lift, John returning the favor with a thermos of hot tea in thanks. 

“Erm, that won’t be necessary,” John coughed, suddenly flushing. He had forgotten, in the four days he’d spent at Roger’s, that he no longer lived at his old flat. Despite the sparseness of the kitchen and the _temperamental_ nature of the hot water system, Roger’s flat had a homey quality to it that John couldn’t quite put his finger on. The thought of the other’s knowing that he was living with Roger—temporarily—settled uncomfortably in his mind. Call him selfish but he wanted to keep it to himself. Maybe it was also the thought that admitting it out loud would make it permanent. If the other two didn’t know then maybe the breakup had never happened, a secret between the three of them. 

“Oh?” Freddie perked up like a cat who got the cream. “Spending the night with the lovely Veronica? John, you absolute dog.” 

“Freddie,” Roger snapped with a warning. “Drop it. I’ll give John a ride in the morning.”

“That makes no sense,” Brian’s brow furrowed. “I live closest, I should pick him up.” 

Roger narrowed his eyes, shifting his weight enough that he stood almost in front of John, rather like a guard dog sniffing out danger. John felt oddly comforted. 

“I said I’d do it,” Roger insisted. “So I’ll do it.” 

“But it doesn’t make sense for you to drive all the way over there only to double back,” Brian sighed, exasperated. “I’ll just get him—”

Realizing that they were on the verge of a patented Brian May lecture on the importance of timeliness, John decided to treat the whole of it like a plaster and rip it off. “I’ve been staying with Roger,” John said quickly. “So there’s no need for you to come fetch me tomorrow.” 

Both Brian and Freddie turned to look at him in unison with twin expressions of confusion. 

“Have you gone _mad_?” Brian gaped. “Why—why would you do that? Is there something wrong with your flat?” 

“Darling, I know that your flat isn’t the greatest, but there’s no need to fall upon your sword unnecessarily,” Freddie teased. “Do you need a place to stay? Mary and I can offer you our sofa bed if that would make you more comfortable.” 

“Didn’t I tell you? About the time with boiler?” Brian continued, his brow furrowing deeply. “Because honestly, Deacy, I thought you knew better—”

“Hey,” Roger said petulantly. “I was a wonderful host, you just had a stick up your arse the size of a Christmas tree.” 

“You nearly burned down the whole flat trying to boil pasta! Pasta, Roger! It’s the easiest food to cook!” 

“I was on the phone! Sorry I _forgot_ for five whole minutes!” 

“Five minutes? The entire pot was on fire, Roger! There was no more water in it. Do you have any idea how long it takes for water to evaporate like that?” 

Roger flushed, though in embarrassment or anger, John didn’t know. “I have been nothing but a wonderful host! Tell them, Deaks!” 

“I mean,” John said carefully, looking at the three of them. “I’m not dead?” 

“See?” Roger beamed like he’d just won the Tour de France.

“That is literally the lowest standard,” Brian intoned with a roll of his eyes. “John, please, don’t torture yourself any further. Come stay with me and Chrissie, we’d be happy to have you.” 

The thought of living with another couple made his stomach roll. 

“That’s very kind of you,” John said carefully. “But I’m fine staying at Roger’s.” 

“What’s wrong with your apartment?” Freddie asked, nosy as ever. “Is everything alright?” 

“My apartment’s fine,” John informed him without thinking. 

“Then why—”

“Veronica and I broke up,” John blurted, once again ripping off the plaster. “And I didn’t want to stay in my apartment and since Roger has a spare room he offered it to me until we leave for tour and I’ve accepted it. Now, please, can we drop it?” 

The room fell into a silence that made his skin crawl. He desperately wanted to get away, but Freddie was blocking the door. Maybe if he just made a run for it, they wouldn’t catch him. He could hear Freddie’s sharp intake of air precursing him making some sort of comment—potentially one of sympathy which would only make everything worse—when Roger swooped in with a save. 

“Honestly, Brian, I feel as though you’ve made a mountain out of a molehill,” he snapped, petulant. “I offered you up my spare bedroom out of the goodness of my heart and here you are, slandering my good name and reputation! Why, it’s downright ungentlemanly!” 

Unable to handle a slight against his character, Brian immediately fell into the argument, blindly following Roger out the door, any and all mention of John’s love life forgotten. John was not quite as lucky with Freddie. 

“Are you alright?” Freddie asked in a tone better sorted for a crying child or a cornered cat. 

“I’m fine,” John lied. “It was mutual.” 

Freddie nodded, that awful pitying look still on his face, “When?” 

John looked down at his hands, then away. “Two weeks ago. Give or take.” _Seventeen days, fourteen hours, and thirty-three minutes_. 

“Why...why didn’t you say anything?” 

John shrugged, unable to lie. “I didn’t want anyone to know.” Noticing the hurt expression on Freddie’s face, John was quick to clarify that he wasn’t the one to tell Roger, that Veronica had been the spiller of the beans. “It wasn’t intentional. I just...I don’t want to talk about it. And you know Roger, he’s never one to pry.” 

Freddie eyed him carefully, his expression unreadable. For one terrifying moment, John thought that he might say something else, but he instead offered him a tiny smile, his eyes kind. 

“Well,” he said carefully as though sounding out each syllable in his mouth. “If you need _anything_ , please don’t hesitate to come to me. I’ve got a lovely shoulder, practically designed for crying on. And I’ll never judge.” 

Not for the first time, John found himself wondering how he’d ever gotten lucky enough to deserve friends like his. 

“I know, Fred,” John smiled. “And I might take you up on that. Someday.” 

“Now,” Freddie clapped his hands together and started for the door. “Let’s go catch up with the others, hm? I don’t want to have to find a new drummer once Brian snaps and kills Roger.” 

John huffed a laugh, “My money’s on Roger. Brian doesn’t stand a chance.”

*

He and Roger fell into a routine of sorts. After practice, Roger would dedicate his free time to keeping John distracted, and, frequently, drunk. There was always something to be done, games to be watched, adventures to be had. Roger dragged him in and out of half the pubs in all of Kensington, the two of them blind drunk and stumbling in the cold night air. Between the alcohol and the girls Roger threw at him, John rarely had enough time to think of Veronica, let alone wallow in his own impending life of loneliness. Roger was right, he needed to spend his time distracted, not wallowing. 

“See the bird over in the corner?” Roger shouted, his arm slung around his shoulder. “Don’t look! Christ, Deaks, don’t be so obvious!”

Roger had dragged John out of the flat their first night wherein they didn’t have practice in the morning. It had taken some convincing, a promise of the first two rounds free, but John found himself at the bar of Roger’s favorite dance club, an overpriced beer in hand. 

Roger’s breath was warm against his ear, and John fought the urge to shiver. He took a sip of his beer to cover it up, swallowing quickly before, “What about her?” 

“She hasn’t looked away from you since you got here. You should go ask her to dance.” 

John laughed, shaking his head. “No, Rog, no, c’mon! Not tonight!” 

“Why not? You’re young, and single, she’s young and beautiful! Match made in heaven!” Roger clapped him hard on the back, sloshing the beer over the rim of the glass all over his hand. John swore, shaking off the split beer onto the floor. “Go ask her to dance, I’m not telling you to _marry_ her!” 

“Rog—”

“Is it little Deacy? Is he feeling the pressure? Are you worried you’ll _misfire_?” Roger teased with a glint in his eye. John scowled, feeling the urge to cover up his bits. 

“Roger, don’t ever talk about my dick again.” 

“I’ll talk about your dick all night unless you go and ask her to dance!” 

“You’re insane.” 

“And you’re stalling.” 

They were at a Mexican standoff, neither wanted to give in to let the other win. John was halfway to accepting that he would spend the rest of the night locking eyes with Roger when Roger made the first move. Grabbing at a girl’s arm, he pulled her in flush with a charming smirk and a wink. 

“Hullo, love,” he grinned, running his hand up and down her bare arm. “M’name’s Roger.” 

“Hiya,” the girl giggled, offering her hand for him to shake. “I’m Ruth.” 

“Enchante,” Roger murmured. John rolled his eyes, turning back to his beer. He was about to slink off to the loo’s when he heard his name. “This is my mate, John. I was wondering if you could do him a favor. You see, he’s been having problems with his—”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” John sputtered, eyes growing wide as a flush burned hot over his face. “Roger!” 

Ruth stared at the two of them, confused. Roger, however, merely grinned wickedly under the flashing lights. 

“Go dance,” Roger insisted. “Or poor Ruth here will have to hear all about your...troubles.” 

“I hate you,” John said in awe. He had no idea Roger could be quite so manipulative. 

“No you don’t,” Roger shrugged. “Now go have fun!” 

With a push, John found himself weaving across the dancefloor, narrowly avoiding bumping into the other inebriated club goers. After a close call with a martini held by an incredibly drunk woman, John found himself standing in front of the woman Roger had pointed out, suddenly wishing it was all over with.

“Hullo,” he shouted over the pounding bass. “Want to dance?” 

The woman tittered, turning to her friend before handing over her drink, reaching for his outstretched hand. John took her hand, still wet from the condensation from her glass and cold to the touch, in his and lead her out onto the dance floor. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Roger watching them, Ruth hanging forgotten off his arm. Flustered from the attention, John turned back to the woman, giving her a little spin before tucking himself alongside her, his hands falling easily to her waist. 

The alcohol in his system made it easy to get lost in the music, letting the bass wash over them while the lights over them flashed and burned. The woman followed along with his hips, her movements just as sure as his own as they bumped and grinded together, lost in the mass of other inebriated dancers. It wasn’t hard for him to let go for their dance, and he found himself almost relaxing into her. He wouldn’t have chosen to dance had Roger not pushed him both handed onto the floor, but he didn’t mind the mockery of intimacy their dance held. 

All too soon, the song changed, twisting into another bass-heavy track that had his fingers itching to play along. The woman twisted to face him, tilting her face up, flashing sour-green and fluorescent blue in the club lights. Whatever she tried to say was lost to the music, but her intent was clear by the hand on his hip slowly moving inward. 

_Let’s get out of here_. 

John felt dread hit deep in the pit of his stomach, and he worked to untangle himself from her hold, shouting a half-meant apology over his shoulder while he retreated back to the bar, the blood thumping heavy in his chest. 

He didn’t want a stranger, a random woman from the crowd. He wanted Veronica. 

“Have a good time?” Roger called, looking away from Ruth long enough to catch the expression on John’s face. 

“Had better,” John shrugged. Roger frowned, pulling away from Ruth so as to sling an arm around John’s shoulders. 

“Aw, well,” he said. “There’s always more fish in the sea!” 

Bending over the bar, he cocked a thumb back towards John while simultaneously slapping a few quid on the bar, demanding the finest lager they had on draft. John accepted his drink with a half smile, the two of them toasting to each other. 

The club’s lights flickered on after at least four more drinks each, forcing the two of them to stumble out into the cold. Roger was belting out Waterloo, butchering the lyrics and making John laugh. 

“You’re ridiculous,” John chuckled, tucking his hands into his pockets to ward off the cold, hunkering down against the chill. 

“ _I was defeated you won the war!_ ” Roger sang, dancing closer to John and spinning around him obnoxious. John shook his head; Roger sang up an octave. 

“Show off!” John shouted over Roger. 

Roger preened, grinning broadly, “ _Promise to love you forever more!_ C’mon, Deaks, I know you know the words!” 

“Never,” John said with a shake of his head. 

Pouting, Roger stopped before him, that mischievous glint still in his eye as he blocked John from continuing down the street. John rolled his eyes and attempted to side step him but Roger wouldn’t budge. 

“Rog, c’mon—”

“Nuh-uh! You can’t pass until you sing,” Roger clucked his tongue, skidding just in time to stop John, who had attempted to fake him out but tripped over his drunk-heavy limbs. “One verse!” 

“I would literally rather die,” John scoffed, trying once more to side step Roger, but was thwarted again. 

“Deaks, where’s your sense of fun? Aren’t you the one who was always telling us we should try something a little less rock n roll a little more ABBA?” 

“I can’t sing,” John deadpanned. “I’ll leave it to the professionals.” 

Roger inspected him closely, and whatever he found on John’s face caused him to step aside with a little bow. “Your loss, Deaks,” he shrugged. 

John found himself oddly disappointed. 

“What happened to Ruth?” he asked carefully, hoping to change the subject. Roger frowned before recognition bloomed across his face. 

“Oh! Ruth. Right. She, uh, she was nice? But I wasn’t looking to pull tonight,” he said with a dismissive wave. “Figured there’s always tomorrow.” 

“She looked like she was interested,” John pushed, ignoring the weird feeling currently bubbling in his chest. 

“So?” Roger scoffed as he kicked an empty glass bottle down the road, throwing his hands up in mock goal celebration when it flew down a side alley with a clatter. “Didja see that?” 

“Revolutionary.” 

“Piss off,” Roger laughed, shoving at John’s shoulder playfully. “But yeah. She was nice, real fit, too, but there was no way I was going to abandon my best mate for her!” 

Warmth filled John’s chest; he fought to keep the dopey grin off his face by ducking his head, scuffing his foot against the pavement. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, carefully aloof despite the overwhelming gratitude he felt. 

“Course I did,” Roger said as though it was the easiest decision in the world. And to him, maybe it was. Roger loved them all in a way that John could never hope to match; he would set himself alight just to keep them warm. He loved them all with a fiery passion—blood of the covenant, womb to tomb. Once you had Roger on your side, anything was possible. “But don’t read too much into it. I’m just holding out for someone who matches my own beauty and wit, of course. Can’t go lowering my standards just for anyone.” 

“Naturally.” John had aimed for a joking tone, but felt as though he had missed the mark by a mile and then some. Instead, he sounded fatally and irrevocably fond. Damn. 

Roger paused where he stood as he turned to face John. For a breath, John thought he might say something, anything, to bridge the gap they were hesitantly building between the two. It would be so easy, John wondered, to reach out and brush back his fringe where it had fallen onto his sweaty brow. His fingers itched to touch. 

Two streets away, a car honked, startling the two of them from their revery. Whatever had just transpired vanished into the foggy night air, leaving them to wander home in silence, mulling over the events of the night.

*

As the four of them geared up for the next leg of the _Sheer Heart Attack_ tour after Brian’s disastrous stay in the hospital, the partying and drinking became the only thing that was keeping John going. He and Roger played tomcat, trolling the bars for drinks to scull and women to dance with. John lost count of how many different girls he had allowed to pull him into back hallways or deserted allies, their lipstick tacky with wax and bright against his own mouth. He found himself craving their company, the heady glances underneath club lights and the subtle tilt of their hips when they caught him staring back.

It became a game, who could get the most numbers; who could get the fittest bird; who would kiss the most girls. Half the time he lost to Roger, which was to be expected. John stood no chance next to flaxen-haired Apollo-esque Roger who had a quick tongue and quicker wit. Girls were magnitized to him, and he so graciously would point them in John’s directions on nights when his subtle staring did nothing for the fairer sex. However, slowly but surely, he learned Roger’s tricks, the little things he did that would ensure a date or a number, or, if he was very lucky, a cab ride back to her home. 

In the beginning, the thought of going home with a stranger—someone he’d never met before—had felt almost dirty, an awkward fumbling mess of an idea that promised nothing but trouble. He’d never been with someone he hadn’t been dating; while his number count wasn’t high, it wasn’t low, either. The difference being that the women he’d been fortunate enough to tumble into bed with had been his longtime girlfriends or someone he’d known since primary school. This was the first time he was not only unmatched but untethered, searching for intimacy with the first fish that swam onto his hook. 

Roger clearly had no trouble with pulling, to him it was another average night out on the town. His reputation preceded him; both the good and the bad. John had lost count of the number of women who had approached the two of them with stars and hearts in their eyes, asking in hushed tones if he really was _that_ Roger. And Roger, ever proud of his reputation as London’s own Casanova, always preened with a salacious wink that promised all that and more. But, no matter how hard the girls tried, Roger would never allow himself to be taken home unless he saw John, too, had found someone to warm his bed. 

Once, John had been halfway to the taxi stand when his date, a rather skittish brunette who’d had one two many vodka sodas, had pulled trig and vomited all over the sidewalk. It was a mess he didn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole, and so, with the last few quid in his wallet, he tucked her into a taxi and sent her on her way back home, waving off her apologies with a strained smile. He’d been halfway down the block before he heard his name, turning to see Roger jogging towards him, his date frowning behind. 

“Where’s the bird?” Roger asked with no pretense of any sort of greeting. 

“Oh, um, she wasn’t exactly in the best state,” John explained as he gestured towards the sick now staining the suede of his boots. “It’s going to take me _ages_ to clean them up.” 

“White vinegar and a toothbrush,” Roger shrugged easily. John blinked at him in confusion before he remembered; Roger had made a living turning old clothes into treasures—of course he’d know how to bring suede back to life. 

“Oh. Thanks.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Roger grinned, quick and easy. “So what now? We getting chips, or heading straight back?” 

John frowned, peering around him towards his abandoned date, who was now tapping her foot with impatience. “Uh, Rog, I think you’re forgetting someone?” 

Roger twisted back, pulling a face with a groan. “Shit, you’re right. Okay, give me a moment to beg off and then we’ll head out, okay?” 

He jogged back towards the girl, who immediately wrapped herself around him. Rolling his eyes, John shook his head and started back down the street, digging his hands in his pockets. Typical end to a typical night; Roger got to go home with a beautiful woman while John got to walk home in the cold. 

“Hey! Hey, _John!_ ” Roger bellowed behind him. Hunching his shoulders, John walked all the more faster; he didn’t want to hear whatever excuses Roger was going to make, he just wanted to crawl into bed, have a wank, and forget about the whole affair. “John!” 

There was a rush of footsteps behind him, the only warning he received before Roger threw himself around John, forcing him stumbling forward from his weight. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” John snarled, struggling to regain his balance in his platform boots. 

“Christ, Deaks, how the fuck can you walk so fast in those shoes?” Roger bitched, yanking John back in an attempt to steady him, which only forced him to once more attempt to regain his equilibrium. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?” 

John fought the urge to shove him off him. “Didn’t want to wait around to hear your goodbye. It’s fine, though, I’ve got a spare set of keys, I can get in.” 

“What the hell are you going on about? I’ve got keys, too!” 

Sometimes, it honestly felt like he and Roger were talking in two different languages. “I know. So you can go now.” 

“Go _where?_ ” 

“I dunno,” John snapped, throwing his hands in the hair. “Wherever that girl lives?” 

“Who, Cherry?” Roger looked comically confused, his brow furrowed and his nose scrunched up. It gave him the look of a toddler trying his best to play innocent for his mother over the drawing on the wallpaper. “Why does it matter where she lives?” 

“Aren’t you going home with her?” 

“What?” Roger laughed, shaking his head. “No, you fucking idiot, I’m not going home with her! What, do you think I’d make you try and get that stain off your boots alone?” 

John found himself lost for words. “You’re not going home with her?” 

“Of course not!” Roger bumped their shoulders. “Now, c’mon, I’m desperate for fish and chips.” 

He left John standing on the sidewalk, watching him stagger off in the direction of home. It took him one moment, maybe two, to regain his ability to walk, chasing after Roger, desperate not to be left alone.

*

John had spent his entire life proud of his self control. Never one to lose his composure, he considered his ability to maintain his emotions one of his greatest strengths. Unlike his friends, he was never one to fly off the handle—like Roger—or wallow in his own emotions, like Brian. And, unlike, Freddie, he never wore his heart on his sleeve. He was a man of heavily monitored and measured control, and he wouldn’t change himself for the world. 

It was why the months after Veronica were so unsettling for himself. 

The last time he had felt this untethered or out of control, he had been twelve, standing grave side while they lowered his father in the damp April ground. To find himself, again, on the edge of that same sort of melancholic misery that permeated every fiber of his being penetrated deep within him like cracks in plaster. 

And thus, alcohol. It hadn’t been an option that fateful spring day, hadn’t been a crutch until he was fresh faced and newly eighteen, sipping a beer that tasted more like ash while his mother wept over how old he had gotten, how much Daddy had missed out on. That was his first night getting drunk, the first time he turned to alcohol when his mind spun too fast for him to keep up and his heart threatened to choke his very life from within. 

Veronica took his composure; took his sense, his control. She stripped him of his armour and flayed the very skin from his bones. She packed her bags and with it, his carefully built and maintained walls. There was nothing more for him to do but try and fill the holes with whatever numbed the pain. 

Gin, and vodka, beer and whisky. Tequila, but only on the worse nights. The odd bottle of wine—always red, never white—and once, rum sweetened with grenadine and coconut that stained the edges of his mouth red. He drank and drank until he felt nothing, and then drank even more to forget that he had to reach that point to begin with. 

It became a sort of game, who could wake up with the funniest story of the night, who could wake up next to the fittest bird, whose hangover was the worst or who didn’t get one at all. There were no winners, and it took John a very long time to realize that they both were losers. Him and Roger, drunk together, stumbling home into the night, falling through the front door, waking slumped over the toilet in the bathroom or collapsed on the living room floor. Once, John had awoken in Roger’s bed only to discover that Roger was missing. It took him twenty minutes to find him passed out in the hallway, never having made it through the front door the night before. 

He would never say that it was fun, but it was something more than the depressive funk he had fallen into the weeks following their split. A welcome reprieve and distraction. 

John awoke with a too-familiar pounding in his head and an unfortunately dry mouth. Heart racing and stomach rolling, he struggled to roll over in bed, squinting against the weak sunlight that filtered through the gaps in the curtains. Blearily, it took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t his room or even his bed that he had woken up in. Rather, it was Roger’s. 

“Rog?” John rasped, reaching up to knuckle at the sleep in his eyes. “You alive?” 

Ears straining, he could vaguely make out the sounds of angry voices on the verge of shouting coming from the hall. Fearing the worst, he stumbled from bed, his feet tangling in a pile of laundry crumpled on the floor. Glancing down, he realized that he was wearing a shirt he had never seen before, one that advertised Joe’s Craw Daddy Shack that he was sure Freddie had picked up in New Orleans, and a pair of briefs. Grabbing for one of Roger’s ridiculous satin robes hanging over the back of the door, John tripped and swayed his way towards the front hall, catching the tail end of the argument. 

“—it’s not healthy, Rog,” Brian hissed. 

“Oh, sod off,” Roger rasped, his voice rough from an early awakening after a long night of booze and cigarettes. “He’s doing just fine!” 

“Drinking every night until you’re passing out isn’t _fine_ ,” Brian snapped. “I mean, look at yourself! We’ll be having to buy you a new liver at this rate!” 

“We’re _fine_! We drink more on tour—”

“Yeah, on tour! We don’t make a lifestyle out of it!” 

“You’re overreacting. I’m merely helping him! He’s gotten his heart broken—”

“And you think the cure for a broken heart is drinking yourself to death?” Brian scoffed. John didn’t have to see him to picture exactly how he was standing, hip cocked in annoyance and hands akimbo on his hips, the picture of a stern father lecturing his errant child. “Newsflash, it’s not.” 

“What would you even know? Your last relationship before Chrissie ended with the both of you moving out for uni,” Roger snarled, his tone angry and defensive. 

“I know that this isn’t going to help in the long run. Sober him up, slap him out of his little pity fest, and don’t let him wallow! We’re going to getting ready for a new tour, we can’t have him drunk and useless, bumming around America crying over Veronica.” 

There was a pause, wherein both fell so silent John wondered if they could hear the roar of his blood in his ears, and then—

“Get the fuck out,” Roger said, voice deadly quiet with no room to argue. 

“Roger—”

“I said get the fuck out and don’t come back until you can learn to be a decent fucking friend and not a condescending pig fucker.” 

“Fine! I’ll leave! But you know I’m right, Roger. Get him to sober up, and soon.” Brian stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. 

He could hear Roger sigh, deep and heavy. He was about to walk into the room, pretend he’d only woken from the door slamming, when Roger called out, “You can come out now, John.” 

Sheepishly, John slunk out of the darkened hallway. A little part of him was exceedingly happy to notice that Roger looked just as rough as John felt, his face sickly pale in the morning light and his hair a matted nest. He’d forgone a robe in favor of a pullover, and had even managed pajama pants. Granted, both top and bottoms didn’t match, but it was far more dressed than John. 

“How much of that did you hear?” he asked, running his hand down his face.

For a brief moment, he considered lying, but decided the truth was a better option, “Enough.” 

“Christ,” Roger heaved out another sigh. “I love Brian, y’know? But sometimes he can be an absolute asshole.” 

“Amen.” 

“Don’t listen to him, alright Deaks? You’re doing just fine and he can suck it.” 

John hesitated, terrified to hear Roger’s response, “I can...I can move back out? Go back to my flat?” 

Roger frowned, “Absolutely not! I don’t want you to leave—unless, unless you want to? If you want to leave, then yeah, sure, go home, but uh, you don’t have to?” 

Relief washed over John, and he let out the breath he didn’t even know he had been holding. “Okay, um, cool. Yeah, so uh, I’ll just, um—do you want breakfast?” 

Roger grinned, bright and sunny, making his way into the kitchen. “I mean, we literally don’t have any eggs. Or bread. And I think the milk might have spoiled? Not sure. Wasn’t it your turn to do the shopping? But we totally have oats for porridge.” 

John fought the urge to roll his eyes and ultimately failed. “Porridge it is.” 

“I like mine with golden syrup,” Roger supplied unhelpfully. 

“You’ll get what you get and you’ll like it no matter what,” John snipped, completely undermining himself as he made his way to the cabinet, getting out the supplies for breakfast.

*

After Brian’s pisspoor excuse for an intervention—which he apologized for by buying the two of them the world’s most awkward dinner wherein Roger took complete advantage by buying two entrees, four beers, and a thick slice of cake—John found himself reflecting on the past three months he’d spent with Roger perpetually drunk. 

It was one thing when it was just John drinking himself into the grave, but he hadn’t even thought about Roger. After one particularly disastrous night wherein John found himself curled up in the back garden weeping, Roger had promised that he would go shot for shot with John for as long as he needed. Originally, it had worked like a charm. The two of them drinking Kensington dry while painting the town red every other night. Drink, sleep, play, repeat. It was a good system, but it had its flaws. 

They were constantly short on cash, spending most of theirs on cheap alcohol and drunk food, the occasional cab ride home when they were too drunk to walk. Not to mention, the toll that being perpetually drunk almost every day took on their bodies. John couldn’t remember the last time it didn’t hurt every time he rolled out of bed. He was consistently sleep deprived, dehydrated, and, if pressed, depressed. Roger had begun taking on a sickly sort of greenish grey every morning that he spent slumped over the kitchen table, attempting to breathe life back into himself with a fry up and too strong tea. 

It wasn’t until he noticed just how terrible Roger looked did he come to the realization that the drinking wasn’t helping him anymore. If anything, it was just putting off him accepting everything that had happened. Veronica, the baby that never was, the future he had carefully planned and imagined in his head falling apart in his hands. Alcohol wasn’t the solution, it was putting off the inevitable. 

But until then, there was the tour. 

Tour was hectic in the best way; a different city every night with a different crowd, each one better than the last. John had enjoyed their previous tours, of course, but this, this was unlike anything else he had ever experienced. There was no one waiting for him back home for him to call, no pressure for him to tuck in early for the night to keep himself from temptation. He said yes where before he would have said no, and did whatever he wanted to. 

He and Roger romped and rolled their way through the heartland of America, toasting to their good fortune, good music, and good luck. They perfected their drunken shenanigans into an art. John lost the number of times they had to pour themselves into the back of a taxi and drunkenly explain which hotel they thought they were staying in. In Madison, Roger had been so sure that they were staying at one hotel all the way across town, that when they arrived at the wrong place, he’d been nearly in tears. The cab driver, taking pity on them, drove around the whole city for forty-five minutes free of charge before they’d eventually recognized their hotel. John had made sure to tip him as a thank you before tugging Roger from the back seat. 

In Florida, John made the mistake of announcing that he wanted to go for a swim, and found himself buck naked with a group of coeds splashing about in the waves at three in the morning. The next morning, he woke up on the floor of an all girls dormitory, clothesless and scratching sand out of places sand should never be. He’d had to sneak back to their hotel in nothing but a bath towel and robe, flushing scarlet the whole time. There had been the briefest moment when he thought he’d made it without being discovered, only to open his hotel door to find Freddie and Roger waiting, matching smirks on their faces and the Polaroid camera in hand. 

San Francisco remained memorable in that he had no memories of anything that happened after the show ended. Somehow, he ended up tucked safely into bed with matching plaited pigtails. Roger, on the other hand, had been missing for half the morning until he was found curled up in Freddie’s closet, lipstick all over his face and a San Francisco 49er’s jersey on, his hair carefully braided back in an elegant French twist. Even Freddie had no idea how he’d managed to get in there, and if it hadn’t been for the terrified maid who’d discovered him there was a likely chance that they would have left him behind. 

It was a whole new world, a new era of Queen wherein John had no one to answer to but himself, and he lived it large. It was thrilling, and exciting, and slowly but surely, it allowed him to forget, the way that Roger had promised. Veronica became less of a gaping wound and more of a scar, slowly fading from memory and view.

*

They arrived in Japan after an elongated break that John, Freddie, and Roger spent on Waikiki Beach, the three of them sunning themselves under palm trees, Mai Thai’s in hand. John had never experienced luxury like that, where every day felt like waking up in paradise. By the time they left for Tokyo, John had decided that if this was the rest of his life, he’d die a happy man. 

“They’re _chasing the car!_ ” Freddie announced, twisting in his seat so he could watch the frantic fans sprint after the hired car. “I wonder if this is how the Beatles felt!” 

Brian, who had turned a sickly sort of grey the moment they’d stepped out of the airport to the hordes of fans, merely grunted. John understood how he felt; the sight of all those thousands of people screaming for his attention had made his own stomach twist, and he ached for a drink. Freddie and Roger, however, were basking in the limelight, preening at the idea of literal screaming and adoring fans waiting for them.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Roger hissed, elbowing Freddie in the side. “I knew we’d make it big!” 

“Yes, yes, darling, wonderful job reading the writing on the wall,” Freddie teased, completely unable to knock the grin from his face. 

“This is it, lads,” Roger continued. “The beginning of everything. I’m telling you, we’re on the absolute edge of glory, and there’s nowhere to go but up.” 

“Don’t you jinx us!” Freddie screeched, reaching over to slap at Roger’s shoulder. Roger laughed, twisting out of the way of a second blow. 

“Relax! I’m serious, Fred, we’re on our way.” 

John settled back into his seat, trying his best to ignore the pit in his stomach. Brian nudged his arm, offering him a comforting smile of his own. 

“It’s going to be okay,” he muttered. John nodded carefully, offering his own weak smile in return before leaning back into his seat. 

Edge of glory—all that was left was a leap of faith.

*

How Roger managed to rig it, John didn’t know, but for the first time since the band was formed, John found himself sharing a room with Roger, not Freddie as it had been before. 

“Brian snores like a goddamned trucker,” Roger had grunted before flopping down on his bed. “And since Freddie could _literally_ sleep through the apocalypse, I slipped Reid a fiver and had him switch our rooms.” 

John laughed, imagining Freddie’s look of indignation when he’d realize he’d been played. “I’d pay to be a fly on the wall when Brian realizes he has to share a bathroom with _Freddie_.” 

Roger cackled, long and loud. “Christ, we’re gonna be hearing about that soon. But all I’ve wanted is just a good night’s sleep without hearing Brian play the mouth horn all night long. How the man is that skinny but that loud, I’ll never understanding.” 

“Poor Chrissie,” John added, feeling wicked. “She must count down the days until tour.” 

Roger snorted, rolling over to press his face into the fluffy pillow provided by the hotel. There was a lull, wherein John busied himself by examining the minibar in their room, taking stock of the different sweets and drinks. 

“John?” 

“Hm?” he hummed, crouching down to try and read the label on what looked to be a bottle of wine. 

“Do you think this is going to last?” 

John paused, his shoulders stiffening. Did he think it was going to last. If he were completely honest with himself, no, a part of him didn’t. Originally, Queen was just supposed to be a side gig, something to do in order to destress and forget about his university exams and woes. Then, it had turned into a side hustle, something to use as an excuse while he put off looking for an actual engineering job. And then somehow, before he’d even realized, it had turned into a full time job that had taken him across America to _Japan_. He was touring the world with his best mates, watching as thousands of strangers sang their songs back to him. It was unreal and insane and completely terrifying. 

And, statistically, it was temporary. 

They’d produced three albums, two which had only done alright, and a third that was just beginning to pick up speed. But most bands never made it past a fourth, especially bands that were being under managed and underpaid. John was no fool, and he knew that they were at a crossroads of sorts, a crossroads where they could either succeed beyond their wildest dreams, or fail. 

John was pragmatic and realistic, and he knew that they were more likely to fail than succeed, but he couldn’t be the one to tell Roger that. He shrugged, refusing to look Roger in the eye as he told him the only truth he could; “I don’t know.” 

Behind him, Roger sighed, long and loud. “I hope it does. I hope it ever ends, and that we keep touring for _ever_.” 

John couldn’t help but smile, “You won’t be saying that when you’re sixty-four and balding, half deaf and no longer able to pick up women.” 

“You take that back!” Roger gasped indignantly, lobbing a pillow at the back of John’s head that landed with terrifying accuracy. “I’ll never bald, you sick son of a bitch! Don’t think I haven’t noticed your temples thinning out, while my hair is just as thick as ever!” 

John chucked the pillow back, laughing too hard to aim properly. It landed next to Roger with a sad ploof. Roger’s eyes lit up as he grabbed at the pillows. 

“This,” he announced wickedly, “means _war_ , Deacon.”

*

However, most good things can’t last forever. Despite the success of _Killer Queen_ , they found themselves broker than before, and struggling to find new management. After one horrible mess, wherein a newly engaged Brian asked Norman for an advance for a down payment on a house, only to be rejected, Freddie called a band meeting. The four of them, still exhausted from their world tour and readjusting to English life, found themselves shuffled in his and Mary’s living room, all perched around a rickety coffee table that he and Roger had dug out of a bin.

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Freddie snarled from around his cigarette. “We’ve topped the charts in bloody fucking America, but we’re still only getting fifty pounds a week! How do they expect us to live?” 

“They don’t,” Roger snorted, reaching for Freddie’s pack and stealing his own fag. After a moment’s pause, he grabbed a second one, lighting the two of them together before passing one off to John, who accepted it with a nod of thanks. “If we have no money, we can’t find new management. And if we can’t find new management, we’ll have to sign on for a second contract.” 

“I’d rather die,” Freddie announced dramatically. 

John cut to look at Brian, who had been sat silent the whole time, pinching at the web of skin between his forefinger and thumb. It was unlike him to be so silent; normally he was the one shouting over Freddie and Roger while John sat back and watched. 

“Brian?” he asked carefully, reaching out to tap at his arm. Brian startled. “Is everything alright?” 

He looked down, chewing on his lower lip while he continued to dig the nail of his thumb into the web of skin. Roger, catching on, leaned in close. 

“Brian, what’s wrong?” he asked, straight to the point. 

“I can’t support—I mean—It’s not…” Brian trailed off, still refusing to look any of them in the eye. “Fifty quid isn’t enough for a family. It’s barely enough for a decent flat, and that’s only because mum and dad have been helping me. Chrissie and I, we want a family. I can’t do that if we don’t get a bigger stipend.” 

Next to John, Roger sucked in a deep breath. 

“No,” Freddie snapped. “No, stop that. You’re talking like you’re going to quit.” 

“I might have to,” Brian shrugged. The fight had left him with nothing; it was a terrible and terrifying sight. Brian, out of all them, always had the fire to keep going. But now, now he was left with nothing to hold for his efforts. “It’s not fair to Chrissie, not fair to any kids we’d want. It’s not enough. I want, so fucking badly, to make it work—”

“Then that’s all that matters.” Roger was firm in his decision, his jaw set. “We’re going to make it work. We’ll get new management—”

“A new contract,” Freddie added.

“And a new stipend,” John finished. “We’ll make it work, even if we have to claw tooth and nail for it.” 

“Don’t you worry,” Freddie promised, reaching over to clasp Brian on the shoulder. “We’re going to make Norman wish he’d never fucked us over.”

*

It took quite literally blood, sweat, and tears, but they did it. They overthrew the frankly backbreaking contract, hired new management, and, as Freddie put it, took their leap of faith into the unknown. They set their sights on to the future, and launched themselves into making the best goddamn album the world had ever seen. 

And that was how they found themselves standing in front of an actual farm, preparing themselves for the inevitable. 

“Freddie,” Roger said warningly, watching as a chicken strutted past the front door. “What the _fuck_ are we doing here?” 

“We’re getting away from the glitz and glamour, darling, going back to our roots, and making a goddamned masterpiece,” Freddie trilled, clapping his hands together excitedly. 

“You’re literally standing in a pile of manure,” John said dryly, arching an eyebrow. Freddie shrieked, leaping away from the shit to fall practically on top of Brian, who fumbled to catch him. 

“And what fucking glitz and glamour?” Roger demanded, poking at a darned hole on John’s jumper.

“John, Roger,” Brian sighed, trying to get Freddie to release his death grip. “Play nice with Freddie. This’ll be good for us, you’ll see.” 

John and Roger exchanged a look. 

“Dibs on the biggest bed!” Roger bellowed, tearing into the farmhouse like the hounds of hell were at his heels. Freddie miraculously recovered in a fit of indignation, yelped and took off after Roger, screaming insults. 

“We work with children,” Brian sighed, looking to John as though for reassurance that they were adults. John found himself horrified at the thought that he and Brian were on equal wavelengths, immediately dropped the suitcase he’d been carrying. 

Ignoring Brian shouting after him, he sprinted after them, taking the stairs two at a time. Realizing that the master bedroom was a lost cause, he leapt over Freddie’s abandoned suitcase in the hallway before slamming his way into each of the other two rooms, measuring the size of each bed in his mind. 

There was a bang, and a curse, followed by Roger tumbling out onto the hallway, sprawled indecently on the carpet, Freddie standing victorious in the master bedroom. 

“Three time boxing champion,” Freddie smirked saccharinely sweet through the crack in the door before he slammed it shut in their faces. 

“Cocksucker!” Roger bellowed, his face red as he blew his hair out of his face. 

“Adorable,” John said, unimpressed. Roger scowled, eyeing him carefully. 

“Which bed’s the second biggest?” Roger demanded as he struggled to his feet. John, thinking fast, pointed at the room next to Freddie’s. Roger saluted him before slipping past him, hip checking the door behind him. 

“So, if Roger’s got that one, which one’s mine?” Brian called up from the bottom of the stairs. John, pivoting on one heel, smiled down at Brian, sticking his hands in his back pockets. 

“I checked,” he shrugged carefully, “and it turns out only one room has its own landline. Looks like the basement’s all yours.” 

Brian scowled. “Now, hold on—” 

“Last one in, worst bed,” Freddie bellowed from behind his closed door. “Don’t play the game if you don’t want to lose!” 

“John—”

“Tough shit,” John shrugged, scurrying into his own room and making to slam the door shut. “I hear smaller rooms stay warmer in the cold!” Flopping onto his bed, he spread out onto much larger bed, smirking to himself. Roger was too trusting, really, it made it too easy.

*

Despite the poor locale, the studio was, much to John’s chagrin, a truly wonderful idea. Their album was slowly but surely coming together, the four of them working together to produce their best work. They worked like men possessed; all four of them spent their days bent over songbooks and their instruments, coaxing music and lyrics from their brains to spin into gold. 

Freddie, in particular, was pushing himself the hardest, focusing all his energy on the song that he promised would make their career. If John were to be honest, it sounded like a lot of pressure on something that wasn’t yet structurally sound enough to hold it, but there was no chance in hell he’d ever admit that. He knew that if you gave Freddie an inch he’d run you a mile, if you left him a pile of rubble he’d build you a castle. There was nothing he couldn’t do, and so John sat back and watched, waiting to see what his genius would produce. 

When Freddie finally came to them, lyrics in hand, John had no idea that what he was looking at was their Hail Mary and Saving Grace, their future and the cornerstone of their lives. Instead, it looked like a half prayer and a mess that Freddie was willing to untangle into something brilliant. Better him than John, in his opinion. 

“Higher,” Freddie demanded from the sound booth, gesturing to Roger. Behind him, John sighed, dropping his head back onto the backrest of the sofa he’d commandeered. 

“I don’t think he can go any higher,” Brian winced as Roger, once again, screeched his way through Freddie’s song. “I think he’s bursting my eardrums.” 

“He can do it,” Freddie insisted. It was terrifying to see how in tune the two of them were; Freddie knew Roger’s limits better than Roger himself. John knew that their friendship, their relationship, was built deeper and stronger than anything he could even hope for. They were one mind in two bodies, more akin to twins than mates. Once, when he and Roger had been particularly trashed and sentimental, Roger had pulled John in tight and announced that he was his best friend. Self deprecating and unable to handle the flattery, John had reminded Roger that he and Freddie were closer. 

“Nah,” Roger slurred as he nuzzled in closer on John’s shoulder, tipping over half his gin and tonic onto John’s sweater vest. “You’re my best mate. Freddie, he’s my _brother_.” 

A brother who was now pushing Roger into a dangerously high range. 

“Blondie,” Freddie announced warningly into the mic. “If you don’t want me in there kicking you in the balls to get you higher, you will reach down into your scrotum and yank your voice up.” 

Roger scowled, subconsciously shifting as though he truly was worried that Freddie would make good on his threat and come for the family jewels. Knowing Freddie, it was, indeed, possible. 

“I’m _trying_ ,” Roger hissed, his voice ever so slightly raspy from overuse. “If you think you can do it better—”

Whatever he was saying cut off as Freddie released the button. Like a film with the sound off, they all watched in morbid fascination as Roger yelled threats and abuse in complete and utter silence. 

“Honestly, Freddie,” Brian said in an unnaturally high voice, doing his worst to imitate Roger. “I think that we should give Brian another guitar solo. He’s just _so good_.” 

“I’ve always been so jealous that Freddie has such luscious hair, while I have to get mine from a bottle,” Freddie continued, matching Brian’s high pitched tone with a giggle. John rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help himself from joining in. 

“Who even is Galileo, anyways?” John mocked, voice high and reedy. Next to him, Brian snorted, divulging into a round of giggles that set of Freddie. Roger, who finally noticed that they were no longer paying him any attention, kicked off his trainers and chucked them at the window. The three of them paused, looked to Roger, then back at each other, and fell further into laughter. 

Unable to miss out on the joke they’d held at his own expense, Roger burst from the soundbooth and into the studio, spitting mad rather like a wet cat. 

“What the hell are you all laughing at, anyways?” Roger demanded, his voice raised and high in indignation. 

Freddie laughed so hard he fell off of his stool. 

After they all managed to calm down, they allowed Roger a break, deciding to rework Brian’s bits instead. Roger, announcing he was exhausted from carrying the whole song, promptly kicked John off the couch, flopped to his back, and passed out cuddling one of the moth-eaten pillows close to his chest. John couldn’t help but admire him for a moment, taking in the sight of Roger relaxed and drooling all over the pillow. 

“Ugh,” Freddie humphed as he rolled the stool over towards where John sat. “Impossible to believe that someone so chaotic can look that peaceful.” 

“He’s such a brat,” John agreed. Side eyeing Freddie, John couldn’t help but ask, “Are you sure you didn’t get the take? You had him going for an hour.” 

Freddie shook his head. “Perfection can’t be rushed, Deacy. Roger himself knows he hasn’t hit it, or else he would have stopped. We’ll know it when we hear it.” 

“You’re going to wreck his voice.” 

“Nonsense,” Freddie said, ignoring John’s frown. “He was fine when we went, what, sixty rounds? For _In the Lap of the Gods_. This is nothing. Plus, Roger’s a big boy, he’ll let us know when he’s had enough.” 

John highly doubted that. Roger had an innate and horrible need to please. If Freddie asked, Roger would jump off a cliff, no questions asked. He had no doubt in his mind that Roger would rather accept death than let Freddie down; he would never admit defeat if it meant getting Freddie what he wanted. And, even John had to admit, this was Freddie’s best work yet. Roger would cut out his own voice box if it meant _Bohemian Rhapsody_ would succeed. 

“I’m going to make him some tea,” John announced, rising to his feet. Noticing Freddie’s upticked brow, John fought valiantly to keep the blush off his face. “If you want him to hit those notes, he’s going to need to soothe his vocal chords. Tea and honey will do the trick.” 

Brian, who had caught the tail end of their conversation over the mic, leaned in close to his guitar, “Any chance I can get in on that?” 

John pegged him with a disdainful look, “You’ve got legs, haven’t you? Put them to good use and get your own.” 

“Favourites,” Freddie sang as John made his way back to the farmhouse. “We’ve all got _favourites_.” 

As the door swung shut behind him, he hoped Freddie would be able to catch the middle finger he stuck up behind him, just for emphasis. 

*

It was perfect, absolutely _perfect_. 

Freddie had done it, he had written their legacy and their future. The final product was the best thing John had ever heard, and he found himself listening in rapture as the tape whirled above them. When it finally came to an end, the entire room remained in silence, letting the end of the tape spin out until finally, it stopped. 

“Well?” Freddie asked, hesitantly, wringing his hands. “What do you think?” 

John swallowed. There was so much he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the right words. It was marvelous, brilliant, a masterpiece. It was everything he’d hoped and nothing he’d planned for. It was haunting and stunning and—

“Fuck you,” Roger said, stunned. “Christ, mate, you just play that and ask us what we think? _Fuck you!_ ” 

Freddie frowned, indignant. “Now, wait just a minute—”

“Jesus Christ, Fred, you wrote a _masterpiece_ ,” Roger continued, steam rolling over Freddie. “Of course we fucking love it, of course we think it’s the best goddamn thing—”

“—I love it,” Brian added. 

“—in the whole goddamn world,” Roger finished. “We’re going to go number one, I’m telling you.” 

Freddie turned to John, watching him with cautious eyes. “And you, darling, what do you think?” 

John couldn’t help but laugh, a tad wetly if he were to be honest. “I think Roger needs to go a bit higher on the ‘Galileo’, but other than that, Fred, it’s brilliant.” 

Roger let out a roar of indignation before tackling John onto the carpet, the two of them cackling. Freddie joined them, and finally, Brian, the four of them rolling on the ground, laughing and whooping in joy as _Bohemian Rhapsody_ played again in the background.

*

In the days following the completion of _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , the four of them found themselves working that much harder, pushing themselves to do their best. While impossible to top or even properly compete with Freddie’s brilliance, it didn’t mean that they didn’t at least try. They were pulling out all the stops; John learned how to play the goddamned upright bass, while Roger demanded—and received—a gong. A _gong_. 

However, by pulling out all the stops, tempers were beginning to grow short and frayed. In the desperation to create something half as brilliant as _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , the pressure to create something brilliant was causing more friction than community. 

Freddie’s enthusiasm for the studio had flagged shortly after _Bohemian Rhapsody_ ’s completion. His room may have had the bigger bed but, as it turned out, it also had a leak directly above said bed. He’d awoken them all with his shrill screams, demanding their assistance in shifting the monstrous four-poster away from the small waterfall which had formed in the ceiling. Unfortunately for Freddie, of the four of them Roger was the only one with anything coming close to upper body strength and Roger — still pissy over being beaten for the, now damp, bed and also the unexplained timpani solo Freddie had had him lay down that day — had slammed his door shut with a grunt and the click of the lock.

It took begging, bribing, and a whole lot of flattery just to get Roger to open the door, which John enjoyed from the safety of his own room as he played around with the little Wurlitzer electric piano Freddie had discarded. 

“Aren’t you going to help?” Brian demanded from the doorway, his hands on his hips. John looked up from the keyboard, raising one eyebrow. 

“I’ve hurt my hand,” John lied blatantly, picking out another chord. “Terribly sore, it is. ‘fraid I’m not much help.” Brian continued to stare at him from the doorway, prompting John to add, “You know, if you keep standing there, they’re going to catch sight of you and then demand that _you_ come help.” 

Brian blanched, turned on his heel, and immediately rushed back down the stairs. John shook his head with a little laugh before returning to the piano, fumbling through another scale. There was a song somewhere, in the back of his mind, that kept him up at night. Sweet and sure, it made his fingers itch in anticipation; he knew that if he could capture it on paper, could turn it into something worth writing, it would flow through him until it was complete. However, as soon as he began to think too hard about writing anything to sit on the same record as _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , the tune escaped him completely.

*

Roger, on the other hand, had promised them his _tour de force_. Where Freddie was writing their legacy, Roger was writing them their treasury. 

“You’ll see, Deacy,” Roger promised as they stood next to each other at the sink, close enough that their elbows brushed and shoulders bumped with each move. It was their turn for clean up following Brian’s rather... _adventurous_ dinner of black bean burgers that had divulged into mush with each bite. “You’re gonna love it.” 

“I’m sure I will,” John said around his face of disgust as he scraped black goo from the skillet. “What is this, cement?”

“No, seriously, I just—I know that I haven’t gotten a single, yet, and that I haven’t really been pulling my weight, lyrically—”

“I swear to god, they could use this to fix all the holes in Lancashire,” John grunted, dunking the skillet into the sink so as to scrub it under the soapy, warm water. 

“—but I really feel like this one is the one,” Roger continued, completely ignoring John’s struggle in favor of tossing the damp drying towel over one shoulder and hopping up onto the counter, his heels hitting the cabinet below rhythmically. “You should just let it soak before you scrub off all the varnish.”

John dropped the skillet with a scowl, turning to glare at him. “Would you like to do it instead, if you’re so knowledgeable?” he snapped. Roger mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key, cheeky as ever. “I give up, this is absolutely ridiculous.” 

Roger laughed. “You’re telling me! I half thought my teeth would stick together when eating. That’s the last time we have Brian cook, he’s the worst.” 

John pegged him with another glare, this time more incredulous than infuriated. “Roger, when it was your turn, you undercooked the beans and burned the toast. If we were to only eat what you or Freddie make, we’d be dead by the end of the week.” 

Roger was wholly unbothered; it wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last time anyone had critiqued his cooking. “Looks like it’s up to you, Deaks. Feed us well, or we shall perish.” 

John threw the useless sponge back into the sink with a heavy sigh. “That’s it,” he said. “I’m quitting. First you need me to play bass, then write, now play cook? I’m out.” 

“Shame,” Roger teased, seeing right through his lies. “And to think I’ve finally written you a bass line to be proud of.” 

John rolled his eyes. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

*

John awoke the next morning to the delicious scent of coffee and, unbelievably, silence. It was rare for there to be absolutely no noise coming from the downstairs, let alone if coffee was already made. While he loved the other three, they weren’t exactly known for their ability to be quiet, and it had a heavy toll on them in regards to sleeping in. With a luxurious stretch and a jaw breaking yawn, John rolled off the bed, wrapping himself in a dressing down and making his way slipper footed towards the kitchen. 

Roger was the only one awake, his head bent over a newspaper, illuminated by the rising sun behind him. It was almost picturesque, the way the light fell golden over his shoulders, like something out the Louvre. John allowed himself a moment to admire him before he cleared his throat. Roger looked up, grinning sunnily. 

“Mornin’! There’s coffee on the stove, and don’t worry, I didn’t try to cook anything.” 

John rolled his eyes, betrayed by his own smile, “Thank God for small miracles. Do you want eggs and bacon?” 

“Cheers, Deaks, you’re aces,” Roger sighed happily. “I’ve half thought my stomach was going to eat itself—if you or Brian hadn’t woken up in the next five minutes I was going to accidentally drop a few of the pots.” 

“Arse,” John said lovingly. “Scrambled alright?” 

“You know how I like ‘em,” Roger shrugged. John made himself busy, pulling out a carton of eggs, milk, and a block of cheese. He knew that the moment the eggs hit the skillet, Brian and Freddie would emerge from their rooms, yawning and begging for food. Better to make more now than to have to pause on his breakfast to serve them later. 

As he began cracking the eggs into a bowl, Roger closed his newspaper with a little cough, drawing John’s attention back to him. Roger opened his mouth, and then closed it, looking back down towards his songbook. John instantly knew that this was the moment; Roger was finally ready to share his supposed masterpiece. But, knowing how Roger was, he hung back, letting Roger gather the strength to share it himself. He whisked the eggs, keeping his moments as steady and open as possible. 

Another moment, and then, “So I’ve finished.” 

John didn’t even pretend to play coy, knowing that this was a moment in and of itself. “That’s wonderful,” he said warmly. “I can’t wait to read it.” 

That was clearly the answer Roger had been hoping for. Hopping to his feet, he came next to John, book in hand open to the correct page. John raised an eyebrow, still holding the bowl of eggs and the whisk. 

“Can I finish making you breakfast, or does this have to happen right now,” he drawled, watching in fascination as Roger flushed in embarrassment, falling back. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, scuffing one socked foot against the floor. “Just excited, I guess.” 

It was strange, seeing Roger this excited yet apprehensive to share his new song. When they were working on _Sheer Heart Attack_ , Roger had chucked his notebook at Freddie’s head, announcing that he’d written a song. Freddie, so indignant at getting pegged in the face with a moleskin, had promptly sworn that he wouldn’t lift a finger or sing a note on the whole thing, causing Roger to shrug and announce he’d sing it anyways. _Tenement Funster_ was almost one-hundred percent Roger, and John had to admit, it was better that way. Freddie didn’t have the emotional connection to pull it off, the way Roger had, and it showed. 

“Let me finish cooking,” John compromised, turning to pour the eggs into the hot pan with a sizzle. “And then I’ll take a look.” 

“Thanks, Deaks.” Roger knocked their shoulders together, sharing a smile between the two of them. 

“Are those eggs?” Brian yawned from behind them, entering the kitchen with a stretch and a scratch at his belly. John rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, and there are enough for everyone,” John sighed, moving to scramble them. “Roger made coffee, too.” 

“Cheers.” 

“I smell breakfast!” Freddie announced, flouncing into the kitchen in a silk kimono he’d bought in Japan. “Deacy, darling, you’ve spoiled us, making breakfast. What would we do without you?” 

“Die,” Roger and John said together, sharing a look and a laugh. Brian, who was practically inhaling his coffee, merely flashed a grateful thumbs up. 

John dished out the eggs onto four plates, making sure to give Roger a slightly larger portion. The previous day, Freddie had demanded Roger redo a drum solo over and over until, finally, he’d let him go when Roger had half looked as though his arms would fall off. If yesterday was anything to go by, Roger was looking at another intense day. 

“So,” Roger announced once they’d all been seated, forks in hand. “I’ve finished it.” 

“Finished what, dear?” Freddie asked, distracted by the abandoned newspaper. 

“My song.” 

“What song?” Brian reached over to take the editorial section, leaving arts and entertainment to Freddie. Roger frowned. John aimed a kick at Freddie’s shin, watching in satisfaction as he yelped, looking upright. John knocked his head in Roger’s direction, glaring sternly at the pair of them and mouthing _Roger’s song_. 

Understanding bloomed on Freddie’s face, and he dropped the paper in favor of clutching at Roger’s hand. “Oh, darling, _marvelous_! Can I read it?”

Roger flushed happily, and handed over the notebook, finally getting the attention he so desperately craved. John and Brian moved in closer to Freddie, the three of them bending over to read Roger’s work. 

John immediately bit his lip. There was absolutely no way that the song Roger had been bragging about all week was the one they were reading, and he hesitantly looked up, meeting Roger’s excited face. 

“Erm, I think we might have the wrong page,” he said carefully, making to turn the page. 

“Let’s see,” Roger frowned, leaning over to check. “Nope, no, that’s the right one.” 

“You’re joking,” Brian snorted, falling back in his seat. “Roger, c’mon. Show us the real song.” 

Roger’s face turned thunderous. “That’s the real song!” 

Brian snorted again, rolling his eyes. “Roger. C’mon. This isn’t funny.” 

“I’m not kidding!” 

“I’m in love with my car,” Freddie said carefully, sounding out each word. “You must be joking.” 

Roger scowled, making to snatch back the book, but was intercepted by Freddie leaping to his feet, scurrying back. 

“What is this, some sort of ode to your car?” Freddie continued, frowning down at the paper. 

“Did you finally realize you were more interested in cars than women?” Brian teased, getting up to read further over Freddie’s shoulder. “‘Told my I girl I’d have to forget her, rather get me a new carburetor’?” 

Across the table, Roger was turning a sickly sort of puce color that had John looking wearily towards the china plate before him. 

“If you don’t like it,” Roger began, only to be cut off by Freddie. 

“I don’t,” he scoffed. “Therefore, I’m not singing it.” 

That certainly didn’t help, and Roger’s expression only darkened. “Who said I wanted you to sing it, anyways?” 

Freddie rolled his eyes and reached for his coffee mug, refusing to even answer. Roger turned on John, scowling. 

“Well?” he demanded. “What do you think.” 

John found himself searching for the right words. “It’s,” he began carefully, pausing to think. “It’s, uh, it’s something else, that’s for sure.” 

“What does that mean?” Roger snarled, standing up and finally, finally, getting the book back from Freddie. In the fuss, the page had ripped, just enough, and John found himself staring at the page. 

“It means, it’s a joke of a song,” Brian huffed under his breath. Unfortunately for him, Roger heard. 

“You haven’t even listened to it!” 

Brian rolled his eyes. “We don’t have to listen to it, Roger. We’re not performing it.” 

Roger turned, once more, to John, his hands settling on his hips. “Well?” 

John flushed, but finally found the words. “Maybe it just needs more work,” he suggested, trying to be as gentle as possible. 

Clearly, that was not the correct answer, and Roger let him know by grabbing the abandoned plate of food and throwing it onto the floor, followed by the song book. 

“Fuck you!” Roger roared before tearing out of the kitchen and back upstairs. There was a pause before he slammed the door so loud the glasses rattled in their cabinets. 

“I think that went well,” Freddie simpered, reaching once more for his tea cup. John sighed, sinking down in his seat and covering his face with his hands.

*

Usually, when Roger was throwing a fit, it would blow over in a few hours once he’d had the time to decompress. John had lost count over the number of times Roger had stormed out of the room midargument, screaming obscenities and insults, only to slink back in a few hours later, ready to either apologize or discuss the issue further in a calm manner. John figured Roger would come back down in an hour, maybe two if he was really incensed. 

When Roger didn’t come down for lunch, John shrugged it off, assuming that he was still angry. They went about working on everything they could do without him, playing about with Freddie’s love song, as that really didn’t require much more than the piano, acoustic, and bass. Roger’s presence was missed, however, and noticeably so. John had lost count of how many times he had turned to look for his approval or opinion, how he naturally always looked to his right, expecting him to be there. Freddie, too, was feeling the loss. When trying to decide on a certain part’s rhythm, he grew exasperated when Brian was unable to immediately pick up on the pacing he’d pictured in his mind. There was no Queen without Roger, and they were suffering for it. 

“He’s just having a temper tantrum,” Brian huffed, finally putting the guitar down. “I’ll go talk some sense into him.” 

Both John and Freddie laughed at the idea. 

“No, darling, that would just be throwing grease on the fire,” Freddie scoffed. “I’ll handle it.” 

Tugging himself to his feet, he sauntered out of the studio and back towards the house, shouting over his shoulder that he’d have Roger down in no time. 

“I mean, what did he expect?” Brian sighed, running his hand down his face. “ _I’m in Love With My Car_. Why, it’s practically comical!” 

John shrugged. “I guess he thought we’d like it.” 

“It has to be a joke,” Brian continued. “It _has_ to be. Roger is an excellent songwriter, you know that as well as I do! And that? That was not his best.” 

“To Roger, it was,” John said simply. “We were a bit harsh.” 

“It had to be said! We can’t record that and put it on the same record as _Bohemian Rhapsody_ ,” Brian scoffed. “We just can’t. It’s not serious enough.” 

At that, John had to laugh, causing Brian to frown. “It’s just,” John huffed, gesturing at Brian. “‘You call me sweet like I’m some kind of cheese’. Or that seaside song he and Freddie were fooling around with the other day. Or, or, or even _Death on Two Legs_. We’re not making a symphony out here, Brian. It’s a bloody rock album, and it’s Queen.” 

“John, be serious. _I’m in_ Love _With My_ Car.” 

John shrugged. “You three let me write and record a song about premature ejaculation, just because Freddie bet me five quid I couldn’t. Where was the uproar over that?” 

At that, Brian fell back in his seat, seemingly lost for words. Just in time, as well, as Freddie came bursting back into the studio, spitting mad. 

“He can sit in that room and _rot_ for all I care,” Freddie spat, throwing himself down onto the floor. “The little bugger won’t come out unless he gets the B-side for _BohRhap_.” 

John winced. “Okay,” he said carefully. “That’s...that’s uh, that’s quite the demand.” 

“It’ll never happen,” said Brian confidently. “I’d rather shave my head than accept it as the b-side.”

*

“He’s now refusing dinner,” Brian announced as he came down the stairs later that evening. 

“That’s a first,” Freddie snorted, flicking the page of his magazine. John rolled his eyes as he shoved a bite of pasta into his mouth. It was a new record; Roger had locked himself in his room for twelve whole hours, barely speaking to any of them, and, as far as they knew, not eating. 

“I think he might be serious,” Brian frowned. 

“Oh, please.” Freddie slammed the magazine shut, leaning forward. “He’s going to sneak down here while we’re all asleep and make off with half the pantry.” 

Brian pulled a face, “I don’t even think he’s gone to the toilet.” 

John scoffed before taking another bite. “He’s probably pissed out the window,” he grunted.

Freddie hummed, letting the magazine fall just enough that he could eye the window thoughtfully. “It’s not as if we’d be able to tell, is it?”

“This is your fault,” John reminded him, pointing his fork at him accusingly. “If you’d been nicer—”

“Don’t you dare put the blame on me!” Freddie cried, throwing his hands into the air. “Brian was the one who told him it was terrible!” 

Brian, too, immediately went onto the defense. “I merely said what I thought everyone else was thinking! If I’m wrong, then I apologize.” Neither Freddie nor John made to defend the song, only proving Brian’s point, which he accepted with a hefty swig of his beer. 

“I’m sure he’ll be over it in the morning,” Freddie said confidently. “You’ll see, he’ll be so hungry and bored that he’ll surely give in.” 

Morning came, and Roger still refused to come down. An inspection of the pantry proved that he had not, in fact, made off with half their food. John couldn’t help but admire his resolve. 

“It’s just a song,” Freddie hissed into his mug of tea. “It’s not like it’s the cure for cancer!” 

John shrugged as he carefully added a spoonful of sugar into his own mug, stirring thoughtfully. “I mean,” he said delicately. “How would you have felt, if we’d laughed over the operatic section?” 

“That’s different,” Freddie snapped. 

John clinked the spoon against the rim of his mug, not looking in Freddie’s direction, “Is it?” 

Freddie jumped to his feet, slamming his hands on the table before sticking a finger in John’s face. “You stop that, John Deacon,” he demanded. “Stop trying to be reasonable.” 

“M’just saying,” John shrugged, taking a sip of his tea. “Something to think on.”

*

When it became evident that Roger was not coming down for lunch, John finally decided it was time to do something. The entire day had been a wash—there were no other parts that required work, all that they had to do was work on Roger’s part. By refusing to come down, he was holding the entire band and the album hostage, and John was no longer going to put up with it. 

“That’s it,” John sighed, getting to his feet. “This has gone on long enough.” 

“What are you gonna do, kick the door down?” Freddie drawled with a roll of his eyes. 

“Even better,” John murmured, reaching for the knife block and grabbing for a steak knife. Freddie sat upright in his chair, staring at John in fascinated horror. 

“Are you going to _stab_ the door?” he cried excitedly. “Brian! Brian come quick, Deacy’s got a knife! I think he’s going to kill Roger!” 

Ignoring Freddie and his histrionics, John picked his way through the kitchen towards the staircase. Brian, who had been downstairs phoning Chrissie on her lunch break, sprinted up from the basement, gaping at John. 

“John, darling, if you’re going to maim him, please aim away from his arms,” Freddie called from behind. “We’ll need those for recording, but his legs! His legs are free game.” 

“John, put down the knife,” Brian demanded, tripping up towards him. “What are you going to do, threaten him until he gives in?” 

“I mean, a light stabbing might just teach the bastard a lesson!”

“Freddie, stop it, that’s terrible! John, I’m serious, what are you doing?” 

“Fixing the problem,” John grunted, coming to a stop before Roger’s door and banging on it, hard. “Roger! It’s time to come out!” 

“Get bent,” Roger shouted from the other side. Gritting his teeth, John banged once more on the door. 

“Roger, I’m serious, open this door!” 

“Or _what?_ ” John could practically hear Roger’s sneer. Making up his mind, John dropped to his knees before the door. 

“You asked for this,” John reminded him. 

“Darling, open the door!” Freddie called. “He’s got a knife!” 

“He’s not going to stab me,” Roger shouted back, too confident. For a brief moment, John actively considered stabbing him. But, in order to actually stab him, he was first going to have to pick the lock. 

“Tell Miami to take the damage out of Roger’s royalties,” John threw over his shoulder before shoving the knife into the keyhole. It was a useful talent, picking locks, but it wasn’t one that he actively advertised. It raised too many questions that he’d rather be left unanswered. Despite being rather out of practice, it didn’t take him more than a minute to get the lock turned, making sure to get his hand on the doorknob before Roger could rush at the door and close it again. 

With a grunt and a shove, he forced his way into the room, ignoring Roger’s indignant shouts and narrowly avoiding the door getting slammed on his person. If he had been just a tad slower, he would have found himself caught between the doorframe and the door. Fortunately for himself, he was faster than Roger, and narrowly avoided damage. Behind him, he could hear the other two rushing to join, so without a second thought, he flipped the lock himself, ensuring that they would be left alone. 

Roger stood before him, the picture of absolute fury. John couldn’t help but be reminded of an angry kitten, all raised fur and bared teeth. 

“Get the fuck out,” Roger hissed, his hands curled into fists next to him. 

“Not until you hear me out first,” John demanded. “You’ve been a right child, locking yourself up all day! And all for what, a song?” 

Roger puffed out his chest as his face turned an alarming shade of scarlet. “Fuck you!” 

John rolled his eyes. “Original. Look, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. I’d expect this from Freddie, but not from you.”

“Fuck _you_!” 

“No, _fuck you!_ We’ve been held at a standstill with this album for a day and a half, all because you didn’t like our criticism—”

“Criticism? That wasn’t criticism! Criticism is telling me that the chorus needed a better rhyme, or I was off tempo! That was a fucking _beating_ ,” Roger spat, getting up into John’s space. “If you didn’t like it, that’s all you fuckers had to say!” 

“We did!” John cried. 

“Oh, trust me, you guys made that _extremely_ clear,” Roger laughed bitterly. “Don’t worry, message received, loud and clear. I should just stick to drumming and never try my hand at songwriting again!” 

“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous!” Freddie shouted from behind the door. 

In unison, both John and Roger turned to the door to bellow, “Fuck _off_ , Freddie!” 

John turned back to Roger, frowning. “What is this really about? We’ve told you we didn’t like your songs before, and you’ve never gotten this upset before.” 

Roger struggled to take a deep breath, his fury still evident. John frowned, reaching out to put one hand on his shoulder, only to get it knocked off. “Hey,” John said softly. “It’s okay. Just breathe, alright? Ten deep breaths.” 

Roger glared, but did as he was told. When he finished, he closed his eyes before opening them, pinning John with a weighted glare. “I put my heart and _soul_ into that song,” Roger said slowly. “I...I thought it was _good_. I still think it’s good. I think it’s funny, and upbeat, and a real rock song. I can—I can fucking hear it in my head. And you three didn’t even give it a chance. You didn’t let me play it for you, or sing it. You just laughed at it.” 

“Roger—”

“I’ve never done that,” Roger interrupted. “I _always_ let you guys play it for me before I give any sort of criticism, and I guess I’d just hoped that you’d do the same. For me.” 

John felt all the anger and frustration he’d built up over the past thirty-six hours melt as he imagined what it must have been like for Roger, revealing something that he’d worked hard on to his best friends, only to have them all laugh and dismiss it like it was nothing. 

“Oh, fuck, Roger you’re right. That was cruel.” 

“Understatement,” Roger muttered, looking away. “But whatever. We can just do Brian’s weird song about Noah’s Ark, or Freddie’s lyrical vitriol to Norman. I should have known better anyways—it’s not like we’ve ever even thought twice about choosing one of my songs as a single.” 

It was absolutely unbelievable, how Roger was able to play John like a goddamn fiddle. Without warning, John found himself actually feeling sorry for Roger, and, dare he say it, _ashamed_. And he didn't even _like_ the damn song. In that moment, watching as Roger looked down at his hands to pick at a frayed thread on the hem of his shirt, John knew that he wasn’t going to watch the b-side of _Bohemian Rhapsody_ go to any other song but Roger’s without a fight. 

“You’re a brat,” John heard himself say fondly. “But you’re right. While I’m not saying that I agree that it should automatically get the b-side, I will admit that we should have given you a chance. You give us the song, and I’ll play. Even if it’s just your drums and my bass.” 

He was practically by the blinding smile Roger gave him in return, right before he threw himself at him in a bone-crushing hug. John accepted the hug with a smile of his own, remembering last minute that he still had the knife in his hand. 

“Okay, okay, I’ve got to return this to the kitchen,” John laughed, pulling back from the hug and waving the knife mockingly in his direction. “Come on down, we’ve got some leftover spaghetti from dinner last night I can heat up for you. You must be half starved, not eating since breakfast yesterday.” 

Roger followed him towards the door, chuckling. “Not quite. I still managed to eat. Wouldn’t say it was on par with dinner, but it was better than nothing.” 

John gave him the side eye. “What did you eat?” 

Curiously, Roger flushed, suddenly unable to look in his direction. He fumbled with the lock, swinging the door open and narrowly avoided trodding on Freddie, who had been listening through the keyhole. 

“Oh, just this and that,” Roger chuckled nervously, looking to the floor by his bed, then John, then away. John turned, suspicious. There, half hidden under the bed, was his box of Jaffa cakes. The box which had, until now, been tucked away in his suitcase which was, last he’d checked, under the bed in John’s room. The bastard had broken into his room and filched his box of Jaffa cakes, and John hadn’t noticed. 

John turned back to him slowly, and furiously. “I’ll give you exactly _fifteen minutes_ to get me another box before I start slicing open your drum kit.” 

Roger balked, “C’mon, Deaks, I was starving! What was I supposed to do?” 

John flashed the knife, taking a threatening step towards him. “Timer starts _now_ , Taylor!” 

Roger didn’t need to be told twice. Practically throwing himself down the staircase, he grabbed for a jacket and the keys, slamming the front door shut behind him. Seconds later, there was the roar of the engine followed by a spray of gravel. 

“Guess his hand’s on his grease gun,” Brian snorted, unable to help himself. Freddie and John exchanged a look. 

“You realize that was your jacket he took, right?” John asked. 

“With your wallet still in it,” Freddie added most unhelpfully. 

Brian blanched, patting at his pockets as he skid down the steps, searching at the jackets. 

“Mother _fucker!_ ”

*

Roger returned thirty minutes later, but made up for his tardiness with two boxes of Jaffa cakes, paid for by Brian, and an apologetic bottle of red wine for John. John took both boxes, hid them in the very back of his closet under an old pile of handmade quilts, and took off with the bottle of wine to lock himself in the studio with the little electric piano.

It didn’t take him long to get halfway through the bottle, sipping at the Bordeaux out of a coffee mug decorated with little pink roses. He found it easier to write after a couple of drinks; the bitterness of the alcohol smoothing out the rough edges of his perfectionism that had him tripping up over the smallest of details, frozen and unable to move on until every note of every line was just so. A bottle of wine was the perfect accompaniment to a day of songwriting, being just enough so as to let him relax into the groove, as Freddie put it, but also have him still remember what he’d written the next day. Mug of wine in hand, he went through the motions of the different chords he’d been practicing. 

It was simple and repetitive, and apparently, exactly what he needed. Within minutes, the song that had been so elusive in the back of his mind finally came together, forcing his hand as he frantically worked to write it all down. It was cheesy and sweet, but it was so inherently true. 

An ode to friendship, an ode to Roger, for all that he had done for him. For all the times that Roger had picked him up off the floor, for how Roger had taken him into his home, how Roger had turned his whole life upside down in the best possible way. Through the eye of the storm into calmer waters, Roger had been the one to talk him off the ledge and bring him back to his sanity. Without Roger, without his _best friend_ , John wouldn’t have made it. There were a few changes he made, an addition here and there, just to make it a little less obvious that it was an ode to Roger. Afterall, he didn’t want people asking too many questions regarding _why_ Roger had to be the one to take such good care of him; the less said about Veronica, the better. 

So John wrote, and he played, and he built out his song until the bottle of wine had been finished, and with it, his song. Staggering back into the house, song in hand, John fell asleep with a smile on his face, know that the were was nothing more to say.

*

The next morning, still a little rough around the edges from the wine, John found himself tucked away in the studio with the others, throwing out ideas for the next song they would workshop, his songbook in hand, waiting for his chance to share. Brian had just finished piecing out his idea for a rendition of _God Save the Queen_ when Freddie leaned back in his seat, stretching carefully. 

“Alright, so we’ve got Brian’s solo, and we’ve unfortunately decided to record _I’m in Love With My Car_ —”

“Thank you,” Roger said primly, the picture of smug, his legs kicked up on the table. Freddie rolled his eyes. 

“—Has anyone else got another song? Or shall we all go back to the drawing board?” 

John cleared his throat, leaning forward in his seat, awkwardly raising one hand. “Actually,” he coughed. “I’ve got a song that I think might work.” 

Roger rocked forward in his seat, dropping his legs off the table. “When did you write a song?” he exclaimed, grinning as he turned to Freddie. “Did you two make a bet again? Are we going to get a song about Little Deacy being unable to get up?” 

“If I were to ask Deacy to write another song, it would be about how small your dick is,” Freddie drawled as Roger scowled. 

“Why would Deacy, of all people, be privy to that?” Brian asked, defeated. Both Roger and John flushed. 

“They live together!” Freddie threw his hand out towards them as if it made perfect sense. “When Roger and I lived together, I lost count of how many times I was forced to see Roger’s dick.” 

“Why were you looking at my dick?!” 

“Don’t act coy—” 

“And if you saw it so much, why don’t _you_ just write the song?” Brian pressed, leaning forward and giving up all pretense of being too good for the conversation. “Why make poor John write it?” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

“Can we stop talking about Roger’s dick, please?” John sighed, rubbing at the headache that was already beginning to form behind his eyes. “As thrilling as it is, I’m literally begging you, please. Stop.” The three of them paused, looked at each other, and then all looked away. “Thank you.” 

Roger, carefully making sure not to look in Freddie’s direction, reached out with gimme hands for the paper in John’s hand. “C’mon, give it here, let me see.” 

John handed it over, doing his best not to look too nervous or apprehensive. It was fairly obvious who it was about, and he didn’t want it to be too weird. In hindsight, he probably should have just shared it with Roger in private, not in front of the others. He was just about to reach for it back when Freddie leaned in, reading the lyrics over Roger’s shoulder. 

“Oh, John,” Freddie cooed, looking up to flutter his eyelashes at John. “It’s simply beautiful! What a darling love song!” 

There was a brief moment where John felt as though he’d had a minor stroke. “What? No, it’s not a love song—”

“I dunno, mate,” Brian shrugged. “Sounds like a love song.” 

“It’s not!” 

“‘You’re my sunshine, and I want you to know that my feelings are true, I really love you’?” 

John flushed. In the light of day, without the haze of two buck chuck in hand, it did sound a little sappier than he’d originally planned. All in the name of saving face, of course. 

“Okay, so that line can be taken out—”

“No, no, I like it!” Freddie cried, turning to smack Brian on the arm. “It’s beautiful! How does it go?” 

Roger, John couldn’t help but notice, was completely silent, sitting sullen in his chair, his arms crossed and lips pursed. John looked away. The previous day’s argument came to mind—Roger never spoke judgement on a song until he heard it. John’s throat felt tight, like he couldn’t swallow. He’d defended Roger’s song, had thrown his weight around to get the other two to agree to at least start recording it. Roger hadn’t even heard it, and he was already passing judgment. 

“Well,” John said, clearing his throat. “I rather like the sound on the Wurlitzer, if I’m going to be completely honest. Something simple, y’know? Nothing too intense.” 

Freddie nodded, gesturing at the piano, “Go on. Show us.” 

John balked, “What, you mean sing?” 

He hadn’t factored this into his grand plan. It was one thing to bang out a quick little ditty about premature ejaculation—it had taken him three tries to get through the whole song as no one could keep a straight face—but it was another thing to sing a thank you song to his best friend. Especially in front of other people, no matter how close they all were together. 

“Don’t be shy,” Freddie pressed. “Play for us!” 

Swallowing nervously, John made to settle himself behind the piano, making sure not to look in Roger’s direction. “Remember,” he laughed nervously. “I can’t sing, so it’ll be better when Freddie, uh, Freddie takes it up. Much better.” 

“Oh darling, you’ll be absolutely fine,” Freddie smiled. “You’re among friends!” 

_That’s the hard part_ , John thought to himself sourly. With a deep breath, John placed his fingers on the keys, and began to play. If he pretended that no one was there, it came easily. He wasn’t the best piano player, but he hadn’t written for anything too complex, just a few simple chords over and over. Same with the melody, it was simple, and sweet, and written more for his own ability than anyone else. Before he knew it, he was pressing the final keys, letting the song come to an end. 

There was silence, which felt more oppressive than anything else he’d ever felt before. Refusing to look up, he kept his eyes squarely on the paper before him, terrified to look up and see everyone else’s distaste written on their faces. The silence continued until—

“John, darling,” Freddie said, his voice soft with wonder. “That was simply beautiful! So sweet, and wonderful! Brian, don’t you think?” 

“It was quite good,” Brian acknowledged. When John looked up, he could see Brian rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. “I think I have just the right idea for the guitar, maybe some harmonies?” 

John relaxed, leaning back in his seat, almost exhausted with how quickly he did. “Yes,” he said. “Harmonies. I was thinking, the line ‘happy at home’? It should have a three part harmony, something with the three of you—”

“I hate that line,” Roger announced, his voice sullen and loud within the studio. “What is this, women’s magazine? You’re _happy_ at _home_?” 

Immediately, John stiffened, feeling his hackles rise up along his back as he turned, slowly, towards Roger. Roger, who didn’t even have the decency to look bothered by his announcement, and was picking at the callus on his hand. 

“What’s wrong with that line?” John spat. 

Roger scoffed with a roll of his eyes. Leaning forward, he smiled sardonically, “We’re in a _rock band_ , Deacy. Not a Girl Guides’ group. No one will take us seriously if we’re announcing that we’d rather be at home playing house than out performing.” 

John set his jaw, “That’s not what I mean, and now you’re just being purposefully obtuse—”

“That’s what you said, isn’t it? You’re happy at home. If you’re that content, maybe this job isn’t for you,” Roger suggested, leaning back with a shrug of his shoulders. 

John saw red. “Is that what you think? That I should just quit?” 

Roger startled, his face twisting. “Now, wait a minute—”

“What are you saying? That I’m not cut out for this? Then _fuck you_ , Roger,” John snarled, jumping to his feet. He felt as though the roaring in his ears would echo through the studio as he stared at Roger, furious. He wanted him to hurt as much as he was hurting, and without much thought, he went straight for the jugular. “You’re just a piss poor excuse for a songwriter, and you’re bitter and jealous that I managed to write something a thousand times better in _one night_ —drunk!—than the three weeks it took you to produce a song that was such shit you had to bully your way onto the album!” 

Without even bothering to look to see Roger’s reaction, John ran from the studio, tripping past the farmhouse, and out into the fields. It felt like he ran for miles, his feet stumbling in the soft, unfettered grass. He ran, and ran, and ran, until there was no more space to run, until his heart felt like it would pound straight through his chest and fall, still beating, at his feat. Only then did he collapse, curling up to tuck his face into his knees, gasping for breath. 

“Ten,” he wheezed, his whole body moving with the force of his breath. “Nine...eight...s-s-seven...six.” He flopped over onto his back, draping one arm over his eyes to block out the late afternoon sun. “Five...f-four...three...two-o...one.” When he finished, he fell quiet, save for the odd cough or sniffle. 

Stupid fucking Roger, the hypochrite. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t shit. He didn’t feel as though it deserved that kind of ridicule, didn’t deserve to be mocked like that in front of everyone. He didn’t deserve to have his heart—no, his entire friendship—thrown back in his face like that. Didn’t Roger see? That he was trying to thank him for everything that he’d done for him, and instead, Roger had had the nerve to toss it back in his face like he’d shown him garbage. 

John rolled over onto his front, tucking his face under his arms. 

There was a reason he always kept his emotions close to his chest. Why he kept himself so heavily guarded. First Veronica, now Roger. John didn’t know how much more he could take. 

He lost track of how long he laid there in the grass. By the time he felt as though he was ready to return, the sun had begun to set, the last streaks of purple and gold stretching out across the field and leading him back home. With his hands tucked deep in his pockets, John kicked at every clump of sod and rock that he came across, dragging his feet and prolonging the inevitable. He didn’t want to face Roger again, didn’t want to see his smug face or hear his excuses. All he wanted to do was turn back time, snatch the lyrics and his feelings back from where he’d flayed them open before the rest. 

By the time the farmhouse came into view, all the lights save for his own bedroom shining bright in the dark, John had made up his mind. He was going to burn the song, set it alight himself and scatter the ashes to the wind. Roger had been right, it was stupid and trivial, and there was no room for it on the album, loathe as he was to admit. 

He paused outside the door, just long enough for him to gather his breath and strength before he slowly turned the lock, stepping into the warmth and out of the chilly summer’s air. The house was quiet, and still smelled faintly of whatever the other three had had for dinner, faintly spicy. Freddie must have reheated one of the countless tubs of soup his mother had sent him up with. His stomach growled, and he followed it into the kitchen, hoping that there would be some left over for him as well. 

Instead of a warm meal and maybe, if he were lucky, a chunk of bread, John found Roger sitting at the table, John’s songbook closed in front of him, his chin in his hands. Too late to back out, John watched in morbid fascination as Roger looked up at him, blanching. 

“John,” he breathed, stumbling to his feet. “Shit, John—”

“No,” John said lowly, entering the kitchen and turning his back to him in favor of going towards the stove, checking to see if the pot on the stove held another serving. 

“I put your bowl in the fridge,” Roger said, rushing to fetch it. “Here, let me—”

“I can do it myself, thanks,” John bit, turning only to grab the bowl from him to dump in the pot. 

“John, please—”

“You made your point clear,” John continued, still unable to look at him. “It’s a shit song—”

“It’s not!”

“—And I’ll tell Fred tomorrow that we won’t do it,” John finished, pretending as though Roger hadn’t spoken.

“No, c’mon, Deaks, I was just being an ass,” Roger pleaded, reaching out to grab John’s shoulder, trying to force him to look at him. John allowed himself to be turned, but refused to look at Roger, no matter how hard he tried. “It’s not the song, okay? It’s me. I was being an asshole—” John scoffed. Roger winced. “But it’s not because of you!” 

“Then why, Roger?” John demanded, finally looking him in the eye. “Because that felt personal.” 

Roger flinched, looking away as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, okay, yes, it was. But it’s not what you think!” he yelped as John scowled, making to turn again. “I just, I’m worried about you!” 

John paused, sceptical, “You’re worried about me. And that’s why you ripped my song to shreds.” 

Hunching into his shoulders, Roger made as though to disappear. “Yeah. I am. I just...you wrote a love song!” 

Impossibly, John’s scowl grew deeper, “How many fucking times do I have to say that it’s not a love song!” 

“It _is_ , though, Deaks, it is! You wrote Veronica a fucking love song!” 

John balked, utterly lost for words. Roger, sensing weakness, continued, “You’re clearly not over her, and I thought that you were, and I, I panicked! I lashed out because I thought—I _assumed_ —that you were over her! That I had helped you get over her, that you were healing, and clearly, I was wrong, and you’re still in love, and I don’t know why but I lashed out over _my_ failure to help you, and that’s not okay. It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me, okay?” 

It felt as though he’d been slapped round the face with a board. “Roger,” John said slowly, struggling to make sense of everything. “I’m not still in love with Veronica.” 

“But you _are_ ,” Roger insisted, eyes wide and imploring. “And that’s, that’s okay! I’m going to help you, okay? Maybe the drinking wasn’t helping, so we’ll figure something else out. Have you ever tried jogging?” 

“Roger,” John repeated, stronger this time. “I’m not in love with Veronica!” 

“You wrote her a goddamned love song! ‘You’re my sunshine’, ‘I’ve been wandering round, but I still come back to you’?” Roger thrust the songbook in John’s face, pointing at the offending lyrics. “Look! Clearly, this is for Veronica! You’re _in love_ with her! It’s so clear!” 

The migraine had returned, and this time in full force. Squeezing his eyes shut, John reached to rub at his temples. Behind him, the soup, now dangerously at risk of burning, sputtered and spat over the counter. Buying himself time to gather his words, John reached to flick off the stove, moving the pan to scrape the now slightly burnt soup into the bowl. 

“Okay,” John breathed, gripping the edges of the counter with both hands. “I can kind of see where you might get that impression. But I am telling you, even if I were in love with Ronnie— _which I am not!_ —there is no chance in hell of that ever happening again. So there is no reason to worry.” 

Roger stomped his foot like a child. “But there is! Clearly, you’re not over her if you’re writing her love songs—”

John snapped, spinning around to yell, “It’s not about her! Stop bringing her up! It’s. Not. About. Veronica!” 

“Than who is it about?” Roger bellowed back. 

_You!_ John wanted to scream. _I wrote it for you, you stupid, idiotic, clueless arsehole!_

“It’s—it’s—” John stammered, thinking quickly of an excuse. “It’s for an idea!” 

“What?” 

“Yes! An idea!” John continued, waving his hands around frantically as if to distract from the fact that he was lying out of his ass. “You know why we broke up, how hard it was for me! So I wrote that as a sort of, a sort of promise. To my future, er, partner.” 

Roger recoiled, his jaw dropped. There was a moment, before he coughed, “No, I uh, I don’t know why you two broke up.” 

John paused. “What?” 

Roger shrugged, looking down, and then away. “You never told me, and I didn’t want to pry. So I don’t know why.” 

All the fight left John. He slumped back against the counter, reaching up to, once again, rub at his temples. Ignoring the soup cooling on the counter, he pushed past Roger to get to the pantry, fishing Freddie’s bottle of vodka out from behind the boxes of cereal and pancake mix. Returning only to grab two glasses, he pointed Roger towards the kitchen table. 

“Sit,” he commanded, watching as Roger scrambled to do as he was told. Plunking a glass in front of him, John poured out a sizable shot of vodka before eyeing it. He knocked back the one he poured for Roger, then went to pour another. Twice, he took the shot intended for Roger, who remained silent the whole time. Finally, when he felt the alcohol warming in the pit of his stomach, he poured one for him, and pushed it across the table. “Drink that.” 

Again, Roger did as he was told. John watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. John poured another for himself, and then, after a second thought, for Roger. 

“Okay,” he hissed, shaking his head to clear the burn. “Why Veronica and I broke up.” 

Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth, and let it all pour out. The baby-that-never-was, the two weeks they spent not speaking, the fight. How she took everything with her, how she broke his heart over what he couldn’t control and what she couldn’t handle. How he laid awake at night and felt like sobbing for the family he so desperately wanted but would never have; at least not with her. How he knew that whoever he wanted to be with could do the very same thing to him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He opened his soul and displayed the very cracks in his marrow, and when he was done, he slumped back in his seat, running his fingers around and around in the ring of condensation his glass had left on the table cloth. 

“So you see,” John sighed. “Even if I still loved her, there’s nothing there. And there’s no possibility of there ever being something there. I just...I have to hope that someday, I’ll find someone who can deal with me, with what my job entails. Someone who won’t break my heart when times get tough.” He waved his hand around, gesturing at Roger, himself, the house. “And that’s not happening anytime soon. So you can stop worrying about it, alright?” 

For the first time in his life, Roger was silent. John appreciated it; he didn’t think that he could handle his pity. Focusing on his drink, he didn’t notice that Roger had moved until it was too late. Roger enwrapped him in a hug, curling around his entire body and pulling him in flush to his own. John closed his eyes and hugged him back, hiding his face in Roger’s hair as he once more counted his breaths, tugging himself back to calm. 

“I wish you had told me,” Roger whispered, “But I understand why you didn’t.” 

John squeezed his eyes tighter, stuttered for breath. 

“One day,” Roger continued. “You’re going to find that person and you’re going to have a beautiful family, with a whole football team’s worth of children. Veronica wasn’t the right girl, but there’s a whole sea of fish out there looking for you, Deaks. And you’re gonna find the right one.” 

John didn’t know which one of them was sniffling—most likely it was him. But he ignored the pull to cry in favor of another shot of vodka, pulling away and discreetly swiping under his eyes as he reached for the glasses. Roger settled back into his seat, grabbing ahold of John’s hand and holding on tight. 

They spent the rest of the night like that, sitting side by side and sipping at their glasses, toasting to their futures and drinking away what might have been.

*

They finished the album two months later, and in celebration, EMI threw them the mother of all parties. John had been to parties before, but nothing that even came close to the extravaganza EMI organized. The four of them were woefully unprepared for the hullabaloo. EMI had spared no expense: alcohol was flowing, the girls were beautiful, and there was dancing aplenty. Even Brian, the self-proclaimed owner of two left feet, had succumbed to the wiles of a stunning woman in red and found himself on the dancefloor. 

John, never one to turn down free booze, had commandeered a booth in the back, making use of the open bar while enjoying the company of his own stunning lady. He’d forgotten her name—Susan? Sally? Samantha?—over the thudding bass from the DJ’s booth, but it didn’t matter. They weren’t exactly sharing a conversation. 

“Some party, eh, Deaks?” Roger shouted as he slid in across the table, two drinks in hand, forcing John to pull back from the impressive hickey he’d been working onto the girl’s neck. 

“Leagues better than Trident,” John agreed. Reaching for his drink from Roger, John raised his glass in a toast. “To EMI!” 

“To EMI!” Roger echoed, clinking their glasses together. They drank quickly, knocking back half of their gin and tonics in one go. 

SusanSallySamantha ran her fingers down John’s chest, toying with one of his buttons. 

“John,” she whined with a pout, her lip gloss glistening under the lights, “Let’s dance.” 

He laughed, leaning in to chase her mouth with his own, his thumb rubbing circles against her hip. “Give me a moment,” John murmured. “I need to be more in the mood.” 

The girl smirked. “I have just the thing to get you in the mood,” she teased. John licked his lips, his eyes hooded as she reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out a little baggy of cocaine, dangling it in front of him like a pony with a carrot. 

“Now we’re talking,” Roger crowed, leaning in. With a business card from one of the higher ups they’d been introduced to, the girl carefully measured out three straight lines onto the table, wiped clean with the sleeve of Roger’s jacket and a few abandoned cocktail napkins. Roger offered her a rolled up fiver, with an exaggerated, “Ladies first.” The music played louder, the two of them watching as she made quick work of the first line. 

Tossing her head back as she swiped under her nose, she handed off the rolled up banknote to John. While cocaine wasn’t his usual drug of choice—that would be alcohol—he’d dabbled here and there with it in the months following the demise of his and Veronica’s relationship. He snorted quickly and steadily; he’d learned his lesson the first time he’d attempted the drug, pausing halfway through the line and losing his nerve to continue. When it was all gone, the girl licked her finger, picking up the remains and reaching to rub the dust onto John’s gum. He kissed away the taste of it while Roger took his own line, his head coming so close to John’s arm he could feel the softness of his hair. 

“Now can we dance?” she whined. John leaned his head back against the thick wood of the booth, closing his eyes against the brightness of the club as she rubbed her hands up and down his chest. He opened them slowly, looking beyond the girl towards Roger, who was running the pad of one finger against the soft pink of his gums. As if sensing the weight of John’s gaze, Roger turned away from the crowd he’d been watching, matching John’s eyes with his own. 

Under the lights and the haze of coke, Roger’s eyes were impossibly dark, hooded and dangerous. John felt lost staring into them, as though he was on unsolid ground, pinned against the edge of the booth and his gaze. He didn’t want to be the first to look away, didn’t want to break the tether they’d stretched carefully between each other, holding the other in place. He could have spent the rest of the night there, watching and being watched in return. 

“ _John_ , c’mon, I want to _dance!_ ” 

The spell broken, Roger blinked, seemingly shaking himself away as he looked away, turning once more from John. Something settled deep in the pit of John’s stomach, and he ached to turn it off. 

“Let’s,” he nodded, as the drugs kicked in, sending his thoughts and emotions spinning across the room. He let SusanSallySamantha tug him to his feet and onto the dance floor, pulling him into the thick throng of people EMI had wrangled and away from Roger.

The DJ turned the music up impossibly louder, the beat thumping within John’s chest, outplaying John’s own heart. He threw his head back, the single action sending all the nerves in his body sparkling and glittering like fireworks. It was easy to let her pull him closer, to tug his arms to wrap around her as they moved together under the lights and the bass. 

He was floating untethered in the crowd, held together only by the warmth of her body against his and the thump of the music in his chest. This was where John felt the most comfortable; in the crowd, another anonymous face, swaying and moving to the beat while the whole world fell apart around him. It didn’t matter what was going on, didn’t matter if their songs were smash hits or if he’d never find his match, all that mattered was that he held the girl close and kept time to the music, dancing the two of them into the wee hours of the morning. 

The music changed. Pressing herself up against John’s front, the girl reached her hands up, running her nails against the nape of his neck, causing him to grimace into her curls as he shivered. It set off a chain reaction; the girl moved in closer, her hips pressing in tight against his; John grabbed at her hips as she wobbled in her platforms; and he looked up, locking eyes with Roger across the crowded dance floor.

It was the same as before; John could no easier look away from him than he could sprout wings and take flight. He was pinned under the weight of Roger’s gaze, heady in the club lights.

Roger had been pulled out by an alluring brunette in a navy jumpsuit that only accentuated her legs and voluptuous hips. The two were entwined together as they rocked in perfect time, her front pressed tight to Roger’s as one arm wrapped around her waist, the other settling in posessively on her arse. 

John found his hand moving, copying Roger as he brought it down to rest right on the curve of his own date’s arse, not quite as daring as Roger but still close enough to make his intentions clear. Under the flashing lights, Roger’s eyes darkened as he continued to stare, his gaze never wavering. John’s mouth went dry as Roger clearly tugged the girl in closer, his free hand moving down to join the other on her arse. Lightheaded from the coke and the bass, John mimicked his movements. 

There was something unbelievable sensual, knowing that what he was doing, Roger was as well. They were moving together—yet apart—and it caused something within him to flicker with heat and want. He could feel himself hardening against the curve of the girl’s hip, could feel as she moved in closer to lick at the curve of his jaw, her hand dropping to grab at his half-hard cock in his trousers. 

Her gasp was hot against the sweat of his neck and he shivered again, eyes half-closing as they moved together under the lights, a perfect symmetry of each other. Roger ducked his head to mouth at his date’s neck; John did the same. Roger rocked them faster; as did John. Roger led; John followed. It was a dance between four people that only two knew of—John pinned in place by Roger’s stare and unable, or even unwilling, to resist. When Roger moved to kiss his date, John did the same, maintaining eye-contact with Roger. 

It was everything and more; John had never felt anything like it before. It was heady and sensual and John almost felt delirious as ABBA demanded he _take it now or leave it, now is all you get, nothing promised no regrets_. He felt overwhelmed as the girl moaned, opening her mouth to let him lick into her. He could feel himself harden fully as Roger grabbed at his partner’s hair so he could pull her head back enough for him to make quick work of her collarbone. 

John did the same. SusanSallySamantha arched into his mouth, her gasp loud over the cacophony of music. 

“Take me home,” she demanded, startling him from his reverie. He looked at her for the first time, noticing the smudge of makeup under one eye, the way her fringe plastered to her forehead with sweat, how her lips were swollen from their kissing, lipgloss long smeared off. She was gorgeous, and sexy, sensual, and fun. Her eyes—pupils blown wide—were heady with a promise of sex. 

“Yes,” John said. “Yes, okay.” 

Unconsciously, he looked back across the room towards Roger. But he was gone, the two of them vanished. His stomach twisted, and he frowned, searching the crowd for his head, desperate to spot him. 

“John!” the girl demanded, grabbing at his hand and yanking him away. “Let’s go!” 

John swallowed thickly but followed, tripping his way out of the crowd, letting her shove him in the general direction of the lifts. As they waited, she reached up to entwine her arms around the back of his neck, hauling him down so she could kiss him again. John let his hands roam free, stopping only when the lift arrived, forcing them to practically fall inside, laughing as John slapped at the buttons. 

“Want you,” the girl breathed against his mouth. John groaned, pulling her in close and grabbing once more at her arse. 

It took ages before the lift doors opened, spilling them into the hallway where they bumped and wove their way in the general direction of his own room. For the first time in the history of their band, they had been put in separate rooms; Trident had always been too cheap to shell out for four rooms, but EMI, in a sign of faith and a flash of wealth, had done so without a second thought. John fumbled with the key, distracted by the hand worming its way into his trousers, pausing his ministrations with the door to rest his forehead against the door and breathe as she breached his pants, her hand cool against the heat of his dick. 

“Hurry,” she whined, squeezing. John saw stars as he shoved the door open, dangerously close to falling on his face. 

They tumbled onto the bed, struggling to shed their clothes in the haze of mouths and hands. John fumbled at the little zipper on the back of her dress as she undid the buttons of his shirt, sucking bruises into each inch of skin exposed. He managed to get the zipper down and she worked it to fall off her shoulders, revealing a lace bra in inky black. John felt himself grow dizzy as he hardened completely, and he hauled her up by the hips to lick over the lace. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” she panted, wiggling away. 

“What?” John let her go, trying to scoot further up the bed. She stopped him with one hand, the other digging into her bra to once again pull the little baggie out. 

“Another?” She cocked her eyebrow, shaking the bag in his face. John nodded, letting her shake the coke out onto the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t as easy as snorting it off the table, but it did its job, the rush hitting him as he pulled the cups of her bra down far enough to latch onto the creamy skin of her breasts. 

On the other side of the wall, a door banged. John groaned, closing his eyes tight as remembered who was on the other side of the wall; Roger. He could hear them fumbling their way to the door, could hear the shrill squeak of bedsprings as they tumbled onto the bed. Above him, the girl wiggled her way down, taking his trousers with her. 

“Have you got a condom?” she demanded as she crawled back to him. John nodded, unable to talk as his head spun, ears still ringing from the music and the squeak of Roger’s bed. 

He couldn’t hear their voices, but he didn’t have to imagine what was happening. Roger, he knew, was probably stripping the girl out of her navy jumpsuit. Knew that Roger—the king of oral fixations—would be sucking hickeys into the girl’s neck, clever fingers moving to twist within her panties. John panted, imagining the two of them intertwined. 

Like before, on the dancefloor, John found himself copying the Roger in his mind, letting his own hand drop to curl within SusanSallySamantha, drawing a cry from her. He let her roll the condom down his cock as he pictured Roger doing the same, rolling them over so he was on top. Roger would go slow, at first, John imagined, doing the same. His jaw dropped into a deep groan as he slipped between her thighs, bowing his head towards her neck. If it were Roger, he’d give her time to adjust, the whole time pressing wet kisses along her chest and neck, working his way towards her mouth before moving down again. When she was ready, he’d build up his rhythm, rocking into her until she was moaning, twisting her hands into the sheets. Like the Roger in his mind, John copied each movement.

In the room next door, the intensity of the bedspring’s squeaks increased, and John fought to do the same. 

Roger would take her fast, John pictured. He’d hold himself up over her body, the whole expanse of his back flexing as he worked the two of them into a frenzy. Below him, SusanSallySamantha whimpered, her nails curling into the meat of his bicep as she urged him faster, harder, deeper. He picked up the pace of his thrusts, driving the headboard into the wall with each one. He wondered, could Roger hear? Did he knew what John was doing, how John was taking the girl apart at the same time as himself? 

John felt himself on the edge, and he picked up the pace, driving little mewls out from the girl. Roger had to know, John thought. He had to realize that they were acting together once more, taking the girls apart together, in the same breath, the same beat. John was matching every single beat; Roger led, John followed. 

It was that image, of John and Roger separate and yet together, that tipped John over the edge. Pushing his face into the curve of the girl’s neck, he groaned long and loud. Secretly, a part of him wanted Roger to hear, for him to know what Roger had done to him without even trying. 

He collapsed on top of SusanSallySamantha, his face smooshing into the down pillow beneath them. In the other room, the squeaks increased in pace until, with a final slam of the headboard, they stopped. John closed his eyes, wishing he could have seen. 

Coming down from his high and his orgasm, John felt as though each limb had been leadened with sand, and he struggled to roll off of the girl, twisting in bed to fumbling his way into the bathroom. Squinting in the fluorescent lights, John took in the wild tangle of his hair, the shockingly bright bruises that littered his neck, the swollen press of his lips. His pupils were the size of pennies, the grey green of his eye a thin sliver. He swallowed; he was a mess. 

For only the briefest of moments, John ducked his head, unable to even look at himself as he imagined what Roger would look like. His hair, would it be hopelessly tangled, as John’s was? Would his cheeks have flushed? How far would it go, if he did. Down to his chest? Or just onto the back of his neck? John desperately needed to know, craved the image of Roger sexed out and panting, collapsed onto bed. 

“John?” SusanSallySamantha called. “Is everything alright? Aren't you coming to bed?” 

John shook his head, forcing the image of Roger,sated and sweating, from his mind. 

“Coming,” he shouted back, twisting the tap so as to splash his face with cold water. When the last traces of Roger had been scrubbed from his mind, John patted his face clean before returning to the bedroom, leaving his fantasy behind him. 

In the morning, he would walk SusanSallySamantha to the door, kiss her goodbye and wave her off down the hall. He would steadfastly shove the night before into his mental box, counting down from ten until there was nothing more to think on, just a weird delusion brought about by too much coke and too much time spent in Roger’s company. And when he woke, it would be nothing but a strange dream, something that in a few years he would laugh about, firm in his knowledge that it would never again happen. 

But until then, in the dark cave of his hotel room, he would allow himself to curl up against SusanSallySamantha’s back and pretend it was Roger he was holding. Pretend that it was Roger murmuring in his sleep, that it was his hair that tickled his cheek. Pretend that there was no one else in the room, just him and Roger, together, at peace, sleeping entwined. 

 

*

 

EMI had every reason to celebrate, as _A Night at the Opera_ exploded onto the music scene, launching their careers into heights they’d never even before imagined. By the end of the year, their troubles were all but vanished; John and Roger celebrated one year of living together—tours and album recordings excluded—with _Bohemian Rhapsody_ going number one on the charts. The ensuing celebration lasted a whole weekend, most of which John had little recollection of. At Roger’s insistence, John officially let go of his lease and completed his move into Roger’s space. He had barely used the apartment, only as a place of storage for the furniture that Roger already had accumulated and as a backup should living with Roger grow to be too tiresome. However, as 1975 drew to a close, John realized that there was nothing tying him to that apartment, and so, by Christmas, he had fully moved in with Roger. 

1975 bled through tours and press conferences, interviews and photoshoots into 1976. They made another album, went on another tour, and finally, finally, found their solid ground. They were doing what they had always dreamed of. It was thrilling and powerful and everything John had never thought was possible. 

It all passed in a kaleidoscope of a blur until one day John was sitting at the kitchen table watching Roger drinking from the milk carton shirtless. 

_God, he’s beautiful_ , John thought, admiring him over the rim of his mug, appreciating the curve of his spine and the flex of his bicep as he raised the carton again. Roger was always beautiful, often annoyingly so. But there was a difference between the performative beauty that Roger shrugged on day to day—flitting about on the periphery of stranger’s lives like a curiosity to be remembered and savoured later as they went about their unbeautiful lives and fucked their unbeautiful husbands, and wives, and partners and thought back to Roger and the wink he’d sent them from where he was draped over the bar of their local haunt like an adorned invitation you knew you could never accept—and the unconscious beauty of Roger in the early morning, uncaring, unseeing, and trusting. John found himself wanting to press himself up against Roger’s back, wanting to curl his arms around his waist and let his lips trace the tendon in his neck. He wondered, did he smell of his shampoo? Or his cologne? Would he shiver, if he brushed away the curls at the nape of his neck and replace them with his mouth? 

He let himself get carried away by the thought of Roger writhing beneath him in pleasure, moaning sinfully as John brought him closer and closer to the edge. He would sound so sweet, would taste and feel so _decadent_. John knew—the kind of awful and inescapable knowledge that once known could never be unknown; the kind of knowledge that changed your entire world without a care for the destruction it was wreaking on the established landscapes of your reality—if he just had the chance to be with Roger, he would never go back. 

John startled, inhaled, and promptly choked on his tea. 

“Deaks?” Roger called, lowering the carton as he turned to stare at him. John was dismayed to realize that a bead of milk clung to his lower lip. He wheezed, flustering for breath.

John froze, staring at Roger. He’d been smacked in the face, unaware and unassuming. He wanted to _be_ with Roger. Not like a friend, not like a brother, but as a _lover_. He wanted to fall asleep curled up next to him, wanted to kiss him, wanted to be with him. John wanted to know what it would feel like to touch him. To love him. 

If this were a movie, John would hear bells and whistles, fireworks would go off, there would be a symphony serenading them. But it wasn’t a movie, it was real life. Roger wasn’t a woman he could pick up at the bar, he was his best friend and bandmate. He was a _man_. 

John would be more likely to be with Farrah Fawcett than he would be with Roger. 

Well, _shit_. 

“... Deaks?” Roger repeated, looking concerned now as he wiped at that bead of milk staining the plushness of his bottom lip with his thumb. He licked it up absently, his tongue swiping out to take it in indecently as he peered at John. John, who couldn’t move his eyes from Roger’s mouth.

“M’fine,” he gasped, tearing his eyes away. Shoving himself away from the table and stumbling towards his room, he repeated: “M’fine.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes!” His voice was strangled. Coughing and half blind, he fled the kitchen, rushing towards his bedroom and away from Roger’s curious gaze. Flopping onto his bed, John covered his face with his hand and groaned. 

“Jesus,” he muttered as he pressed his heels into his eyes. “What the _fuck_.” 

He was in love with Roger. 

_Fuck_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic would not have been made possible if it weren't for lo (devereauxing), the 1979 classic song _voulez-vous_ by ABBA (we're playing fast and loose with timelines here people), and all you wonderful people who have been urging me to continue. you're all the mvps


	5. damn your love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the days following his revelation, John couldn’t help but walk around feeling like he’d been cracked over the head with a mallet. Everything was a dizzying blur, so very different from what he’d always thought he’d known. He had gone to bed thinking of himself as a heterosexual man and awoken in a new world where the casual sprawl of Roger’s body in their shared spaces summoned him like a siren at sea — inviting him in as he struggled to keep his head above the waves of his own desire; struggled to remember _reality_. Once it was known — the desire, the danger, the desperation to touch and mark and taste — there was no turning back. John found himself unable to focus on anything but the thought of him and Roger, together. He coveted him like he would water in a desert—wanted him the way an alcoholic craves the burn at the back of his throat; dark, and dangerous, and addictive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this one took forever! it's a 52,114 word labor of love. thank you to each and every one of you for your patience, i cannot stress enough how much it means to me. i hope i haven't lost y'all in the wait: feel free to slide into my comments and say hi! 
> 
> (special shout out to lo, who quite literally held this shit show of a chapter together while continuously talking me off the ledge)
> 
> anyways, i'll be your server today giving you a heafty dose of angst followed by some lovely fluff. this chapter is best paired with the critically acclaimed bop _dancing on my own_ by robyn. afterwards, the chef suggests _you make loving fun_ by fleetwood mac as a digestif. 
> 
> bon appétit

In the days following his revelation, John couldn’t help but walk around feeling like he’d been cracked over the head with a mallet. Everything was a dizzying blur, so very different from what he’d always thought he’d known. He had gone to bed thinking of himself as a heterosexual man and awoken in a new world where the casual sprawl of Roger’s body in their shared spaces summoned him like a siren at sea — inviting him in as he struggled to keep his head above the waves of his own desire; struggled to remember _reality_. Once it was known — the desire, the danger, the desperation to touch and mark and taste — there was no turning back. John found himself unable to focus on anything but the thought of him and Roger, together. He coveted him like he would water in a desert—wanted him the way an alcoholic craves the burn at the back of his throat; dark, and dangerous, and addictive. 

Practice was made tortuous by the sight of Roger wiping at his chest with his abandoned shirt as he dripped with sweat. His own apartment became a living nightmare. Fantasies blended with the routine of everyday domesticity as Roger walked about in nothing but his towel or cuddled in close while they watched the nine o’clock film. He hungered for the sight of Roger sleepy-eyed and yawning across the breakfast table, or Roger laughing brightly at whatever joke Freddie had made — caught himself itching to be the next, the only, to garner such a response. He yearned to catch him bent over a guitar strumming at whatever song he was writing next. John wanted all of Roger; wanted him in his bed, by his side, in his life. 

It was wholly unlike anything he’d ever felt before. 

Veronica had been something that had grown slowly, from their first meeting at the university disco to their first month’s anniversary when John asked Veronica to be his girlfriend. It had felt like a slow and natural progression. It made sense, him and Veronica. But Roger? Roger made no sense. Roger was a square peg in a round hole; it just didn’t fit. It didn’t fit in John’s perception of himself, of the world. Of what it was that he wanted. 

It didn’t make sense, for John to suddenly find himself lost without the thought of Roger by his side, or for John to be so desperate for his attention and affection. John didn’t know where it came from, this sudden and terrifying urge of knowing that _he loved Roger_. 

But, in the back of his mind, John had to acknowledge that what he felt was likely nothing more than an obsession, a cruel development brought upon by John’s lack of a proper relationship since Veronica. Or maybe, he hoped it was nothing more than a phase. Maybe he hoped that this sudden all consuming, confusing, terrifying... _something_ would wane over time as rationality took hold. Perhaps his acknowledgement that he may be using Roger as a surrogate for his heartbreak and loneliness was fear — not wisdom. 

It would be so much easier, if this was just a phase. 

And then, like a punch to the gut, the thought would come to him. Did Freddie—laying in bed next to Mary after stumbling home in the early hours with the scent of another man clinging to his skin—hope his own desires were a phase too?

John tried to rationalize it by telling himself that forming an attachment to Roger was natural given the circumstances. While there had been women he hadn’t had a _relationship_ since Veronica had broken his heart in his own bathroom; hadn’t had a relationship since the baby that never was and the family that never could have been. He had been looking for intimacy in clubs, back alleys, and record parties; flings and romps and rolls in hotel beds that never led to anything more than a memorable night and promises he never intended to keep. And through it all, was Roger. Roger, his best mate. The first person he turned to when he wanted to see a movie or play Scrabble, to drink until he forgot, or fuck until he remembered. The first person he’d reach out to whenever he needed anything. Roger was his best friend. He was the reminder that he wasn’t alone and the balm that soothed the ache of being known.

And it was terrifying. 

It was terrifying to come to the realization that in such a short span of time—two and a half years—Roger had become everything. Roger had become who he came home to at night and who he woke up thinking of in the morning. Somewhere in between the endless cities that they explored together and the legs of women he cared for only while they stood, lay, kneeled in front of him; somewhere in between the grief of Veronica and the endless expanse of the fathomless future which sprawled in front of them, Roger had nestled his way into the very core of him. Roger had become so essential to John’s own conceptualization of himself that he had, in fact, made him unrecognizable to himself.

*

John decided to test this new understanding, or potential understanding, of himself slowly and carefully. Using a strict regimen of guidelines, he started to slowly allow himself to _look_. Before, John had always curbed his desire to stare at anyone, man or woman. But with the revelation that he might actually be in love with his _male_ best friend, he realized that it was time to start testing just who—other than Roger—he wanted to be staring at. 

He would be the first one to admit that he had always had a desire to look at men, but had written off as normal. The flush an attractive man brought to his cheeks couldn’t have been of the same type that an attractive woman did, and that was that. Rather, it was the burn of envy. He was _envious_ of the men who caused him to duck his gaze. That made sense. As someone who was more inclined to bite their tongue rather than speak their mind, John had used his penchant for looking as a sort of self defense. 

He discovered that while Roger was the main focus of his adoration, that when he allowed himself to _look_ there was much to be appreciated in the sloping curve of a man’s shoulders, or the sharp cut of his jaw line. He noticed the innate sensuality of a man’s cologne; how he could lose himself imagining what it would be like to be held by someone who was strong instead of gentle, firm where women were soft. Once, he got so caught up staring across the tube at the hands of a well dressed businessman that he missed his stop and had to ride three stops back, flushed and flustered at the very thought of his fingers curled around the handle bar. Still, despite his growing understanding of how he felt for the less-fairer sex, John found himself drawn to Roger, to his voice and his eyes and his company. 

It was a hopeless case—Roger was a well known Casanova; his love for women was common knowledge and well documented. He loved women like others loved fine wine, he could never get enough, no matter what type. For _years_ John had seen him seduce even the most uninterested woman without a single word. Never had he seen Roger look twice at a man unless it was to appreciate their clothes — or the woman on their arm. Roger was a man’s man once you looked past the glitz and glam of the rockstar lifestyle. 

There was no prospect, not even the slightest of hopes, that Roger would ever look at him as anything more than a friend.

And so, desperate to move on, John made use of the anonymity of London’s gay clubs, sneaking away in the middle of the night. It wasn’t as though he were ashamed, per say, of his newfound sexuality. He knew that there was nothing wrong with being gay— years in showbiz had stripped him of any of traces of middle-English propriety regarding the morality of homosexuality, and being friends with Freddie and Roger had ruined any of his chances at remaining innocent as to the endless possible meanings of _buggery_ — but accepting such a thing in others and accepting it of yourself were two completely different things. If he were completely honest with himself, he was aware that his whole life he had been curious about what it would be like to be with another man. Had held himself that bit stiffer as his arm brushed against another’s and made a habit of forgoing urinals for stalls out of a fear he’d never quite before now been able to articulate nor explain. 

But it wasn’t just that which held him back from seeking advice and comfort from those he knew would never judge based on sexual preference. 

No, his hesitation in announcing his new understanding of himself was also the questions that followed, the way that it could change everything. It was hard enough trying to keep the love and adoration he felt for Roger from showing as was; he knew that should they ask how he had come to terms with his attraction to men, after so many years of being seemingly perfectly happy in the company and embrace of women, it would all run across his face like the ticker-tape at the bottom of a newsreel; _John Deacon, current bassist for the rock band Queen, hopelessly and desperately in love with fellow bandmate and best friend, heterosexual Roger Taylor_. 

So he kept it to himself, tucked between his ribs and heart like the worst kept secret, creating a list of strict rules to abide by: rules that would regulate just how he would go about exploring his new identity. 

No blonds, he was firm with that. No one who recognized him. No using his real name—although John was common enough, he didn’t want to take any risks. No clubs near any of their own haunts, near any concert halls, near any party he might have attended in the past. Furthermore, he alternated the clubs so as not to become too familiar to anyone and lessen his risk of getting recognized. He never spent the night, never allowed himself to get too drunk, and never, ever, spoke about it to anyone else. 

The first time he entered a gay bar, he stuck to the bar, sipping slowly at a beer and keeping his hands—and eyes—to himself. Something in his expression must have told the other patrons that he was not to be approached, which he appreciated. It took him at least four trips to the bar before he allowed himself to relax enough to approach another man, and another six afterwards to do anything more than talk. Dancing led to kissing, which led to groping, which quickly developed into a shaky and nervous hand job in a bathroom stall. 

John had never felt this liberated before—had never realized that there was a whole other world out there, a world where _he_ was the one being pushed against the wall and ravished. A world where your own force was met rather than yielded to, and someone knew the erogenous zones of his body better than he did. 

He'd been tipsy and flushed in a crowd, letting a larger man with a mustache dance with him as the bass thumped in his chest—high off of anonymity and bright lights; something he couldn't help but feel was a misnomer in the trail to stardom that Queen was blazing — the night he first fucked another man. It was the first time that the anonymity he craved within the crush of moving bodies had felt secure, and that the thrill had banked in his chest at the thought of hurried hand jobs in the loos. Looking up from the dance floor he'd caught sight of a man so very different from the one grinding against his thigh; a good two inches shorter than himself, stocky and brunet, but with large pale eyes and a crooked smile -- the resemblance to Roger, which John so desperately didn't want to see, was striking. The flutter of his eyelashes, curve of his lips, and the cut of his jaw had heat pooling low in John's stomach that he knew, as well as he did the colour of the sky, that he wouldn't fight. The music, the alcohol, the desire to experience even just a quarter of what it might be like to have Roger... John couldn't say for certain what it was that tipped him over the edge and had him stumbling over, but it all amounted to the same thing in the end. 

They never exchanged names—there was no need. John followed the man home, trailing desperately behind him as they picked their way through Soho towards his apartment. Before the door had swung shut behind them on his little bedsit, John had pushed the man up against the hallway and licked clear into his mouth, fantasizing that it was Roger instead. As they shed their clothes, John pictured Roger unbuttoning his shirt, Roger falling backwards onto the bed, Roger allowing himself to be taken apart by John’s clever fingers and even cleverer tongue. John wished it was Roger he was pressing into, Roger’s hips he was gripping as he rutted his way into orgasm, chasing a dream that he knew could never be. And, when they both finished and lay sated on the bed, John’s heart ached for it to be Roger who curled into his chest and murmured how amazing it was. 

The floodgates opened, the tides rushed in, and John let it wash over him. He sunk beneath his sea of desire without protest, without complaint. He allowed himself to crave his carefully managed trips to the clubs, to crave the release that he was unable to find among women. 

Which wasn’t to say that he didn’t still enjoy women’s company. When the other three insisted on a night out, he made sure to put on a show of engaging with the women that seemed to throw themselves at him, due to his fame and wallet. It wasn’t a hardship; women still appealed, they just didn’t quite scratch the itch he had been to blissfully, ignorantly, desperately ignoring until recently. He allowed himself to lose himself within the crowd of adoring women who wanted nothing more than to claim that they kissed a rockstar, or sucked one off in the alley behind the club. Groupies were plenty apiece; Brian and Roger definitely took advantage of their easy smiles and ‘come hither’ glances. 

But it became less of a treat and more of a show, a facade John put on every night to hide what he really wanted— _who_ he really wanted. 

It was hard holding back and watching as Roger flirted and fucked his way through the crowd, dropping winks, sly hands, and kisses to the prettiest women. John longed to receive the same attention; he wanted to be the person Roger led onto the dance floor, wanted Roger to run his fingers down his spine to the small of his back, and to be the one sliding behind Roger into a taxi that would bring them back to their bed. 

And so, John pulled away. 

He begged off the wild nights out that Roger promised, claimed that he wanted an early night in, or to catch a late night rerun of whatever show he’d missed on tour. He waved Roger off with excuse after excuse knowing that he couldn’t stomach the sight of Roger doing things to women that John so desperately wanted to do to him. It wasn’t like Roger missed him. John lost count of how many nights he slipped back into the flat to find the evidence of Roger having spent the night with someone— be it friend or paramour. The Scrabble board, still set up on the dining room table, tiles sprawled across the board; a half eaten bowl of popcorn in front of the telly; pots from Roger’s disastrous attempt at cooking dinner soaking in the sink. On more than one occasion, Freddie had regaled them all with some fantastical story of how Roger had called him up and invited him out somewhere last minute, the two of them inevitably falling into mischief. It was almost terrifying, how easily Roger seemed to move between demanding John join him—on a night out, for dinner, to watch a film—to replacing him with Freddie, or Crystal, or Brian, even. 

It was as though John were invisible once more, hanging onto the edge of the band and Roger’s friendship by his fingertips, unwilling to let go but unable to hang on. 

And, so, when Roger was on his way to whatever club they’d chosen to haunt for the night, John would slip out the front door to his own club, one where he would desperately try to shake the imprint of Roger from his mind. 

But it was like a placebo; the effects were short lived. No matter how hard he tried, how many men he fucked or allowed to fuck him, he was always left craving the high he'd never really stopped chasing. He was an addict, and he couldn't help but rage at the injustice of having never had a taste of that which he was so desperate for—couldn't help but think of how worthless, how _pitiful_ , his desires were and how bloody pathetic he was for making a prison out of his own newfound freedom.

*

Queen continued to dominate the music industry and their free concert in Hyde Park firmly staked their claim as, well, _royalty_. There was nowhere else for them to go but up. John wished as he stared out among the hundreds of thousands of adoring fans all singing their songs—his songs—back to him, that he could bottle the feeling and keep it forever. When they all took their final bows, Roger tucked under his arm so close that he thought he could feel his racing pulse against his own, John thought if he were to die right then and there, he’d die completely, horribly happy. 

It was a whole other feeling, knowing that this was it, this was the crest of a wave that—if they played their cards right, and in the wake of their recent successes, John was willing to admit to a certain cockiness which had him revelling in a hubristic delirium that felt like _certainty_ —was never going to end. They were on the top of the world. Queen was growing bigger and bigger, and nothing was going to stop them. 

One morning about a month after Hyde Park, John snuck back into the flat, a bag of fresh morning buns in hand. He’d passed the night with a rough looking man who’d took him apart and put him back together with his fingers, lips, and cock. It had been wild and hot and exactly what he’d needed after a grueling day in the studio staring across the room at Roger as he, Brian, and Freddie harmonized _Somebody to Love_. It had been torture, watching as Roger begged to find love, looking lovely as ever in his half-buttoned shirt. John had slipped out after work when Roger made mention of a late dinner date, heading to one of his favorite bars to drink away his emotions. 

It had done the trick—John had managed to forget Roger when he was flat on his back begging for more, and didn’t think of him again until he was halfway home and passing the bakery. It was easy enough to stop by and pick up Roger’s favorite, still hot and steaming as he slipped through the front door, gently closing it behind him. 

He was just pulling a teacup from the cupboard when he heard footsteps behind him. Smiling to himself, he grabbed another as he said, “Mornin’. I put enough water in the kettle for two, and I grabbed those cinnamon buns from the corner bakery.” 

“Oh, um, good morning.” 

That was decidedly not Roger. John startled, dropping the mug to shatter on the floor as he spun around, whirling to face the very startled woman Roger had clearly spent the night with. She herself looked terrified, clutching at the folds of Roger’s dressing robe with one hand while the other wrapped around her waist, making to step back as though John would grab a shard of ceramic and lunge for her. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John breathed, pressing his own hand to his chest. “Shit, shit; sorry, you uh, you scared me. I—I wasn’t expecting you! I thought you were Roger.” 

“Sorry,” the woman cringed, backing from the kitchen back towards the hallway. “I’ll, uh, I’ll just go back—”

“No, no,” John stammered, shaking his head. “No, sorry! I, um, I put enough water in the kettle. Would you like a cuppa?” 

The woman studied him carefully before smiling gently, making her way towards the kitchen table, skirting her way around the broken mug. John fetched another mug before making his way to the broom closet to take care of the mess. 

“Oh,” she said, raising up and making her way towards him. “I should do that, I’m the one who startled you.” 

“Don’t worry,” John attempted to smile, crouching down to sweep the mess up. “I’ll handle it.” 

“Thank you,” she said primly, the faint hints of an accent John was too frazzled to place skirting the edges of otherwise perfect Queen’s English, sitting back down and returning her hand to the lapel of Roger’s robe. It fell silent, the two of them struggling to come up with a reason to speak. Normally, in situations like this, Roger would be there as well to break the awkwardness with charm and wit. Or the girl would scurry out once she woke, carefully tiptoeing her way through the flat with her shoes in hand. Never before had it been John and last night’s tryst sitting awkwardly in the kitchen by themselves. 

“Is, uh, Yorkshire good for you?” John asked, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“That’s fine, thanks,” she smiled awkwardly. “Is there milk— in the fridge?” 

John scrunched up his face in thought, “I...think so? Roger should have gotten more, it was his turn. Although, to be honest, I can’t guarantee.” 

She let out a little giggle, pressing her hand to her lips as she made her way to the fridge. There was, indeed, an inch of milk left in the fridge. She held up the carton, shaking it carefully before giggling once more. 

“Typical Roger,” she teased. “Taking it all for himself.” 

John glowered; who was she to make fun of him with such familiarity? Who was she, even, other than Roger’s one night stand? He watched her as she began fixing her own cup, stirring in a spoonful of sugar and a dash of milk. Her hair fell across her face as she stirred, and his memory sparked sluggishly — he had seen her before, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where. 

“Oh God,” John cursed, reaching up to hit his forehead with his palm in a way he hoped came across as casual before extending his hand. “I’m sorry, shit. I’m John, John Deacon. I work with Roger.” 

She tittered, smiling wide as she reached for his hand, “I know. I’m Dominique.” Noticing his blank stare, she pressed, “From the Hyde Park concert. I’m Richard Branson’s assistant.” 

It took a moment before it sunk in—she was the assistant Roger had been hitting on so steadily, the one who had tried so hard to resist him as Crystal took sly bets among the crew in the background. John couldn’t help the warm flush that crept up the back of his neck as he was so smoothly called out over forgetting her. 

“Shit,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, that’s so rude of me—”

“No, no, we barely spoke,” Dominique shook her head gracefully, her hair falling over her face. “In fact, I’m sure Roger only remembered my name because he fancied me.” 

“That...does sound like Roger.” 

Dominique pushed the sugar towards him. “Can I ask you a question?” 

“Of course,” John lied, looking away. 

She cleared her throat, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Roger’s spoke so highly of you, and how close you two are. He mentioned that you usually share a hotel room on tour?” 

John clenched his jaw, nodding his head tightly. She barrelled on, either ignorant to his discomfort or willing to ignore it. “It’s just—have you ever noticed that he, uh, in his sleep. He talks?” 

John blinked, watching her blush slightly. “Oh my god, _yes_ ,” he blurted out. “Every night!”

“Yes!” 

“It’s not like, a conversation, but it always catches me off guard, I think he’s talking to me but he’s just _asleep_.” 

Dominique took a quick sip of her tea, eyes wide as she nodded quickly. “Last night, I swear, he spent half the night just chattering away!” 

Fetching the bag of pastries, John offered Roger’s as a somewhat apology. For his unfounded dislike or for Roger’s sleep talking, however, he wasn’t sure; he knew how frustrating it was to wake in the middle of the night to Roger’s incoherent rambles. Tearing into the bun, Dominique made quick work of the inner dough. 

“Once, in Australia, I swear he told Freddie that they had a late morning start? When really we had to be up by seven am. So Freddie _turned off the alarm!_ We had to go down to the concierge and get a spare key so we could break into the room and wake them up!” 

They spent the next hour sipping at their tea and chatting amicably. If it were under any other circumstances, John would have loved Dominique. Hell, maybe in another life he would be the one chasing after her. She was gorgeous, witty, and sweet, with a devilish smirk and a bubbly laugh. Smart and incredibly knowledgeable about the music scene, she promptly ran circles around John’s limited information about who was currently dominating the charts, who was touring, what albums were coming out next. In fact, she was practically the ideal woman which just made it all the more hard. She was perfect, perfect for Roger, and everything John wished he could be. 

He hated how much he liked her.

The only thing that made the whole awkward situation better was the knowledge that John would most likely never have to see Dominique again. Roger never made it a habit of dipping his fingers in the same pie twice. No, Dominique, as lovely as she was, would be like all the other women Roger had wined and dined; nothing more than a fond memory and a notch on his bedpost.

“Would you look at this,” Roger yawned as he came into the kitchen, jolting the two out of their conversation. “My best girl and my best mate.” 

“Good morning, _cher_ ,” Dominique smiled sunnily as Roger bent over the back of her chair to kiss her, slow and languid. “Sleep well?” 

“Like a rock.” Roger made his way to the cabinet, reaching for his own mug for tea as he turned on the stove. “Although,” he added slyly. “My morning would have been better had you been there when I woke up.” 

John curled his hands into fists, struggling to bite back the envy that was boiling in the pit of his stomach. Dominique rolled her eyes towards John, including him in a joke he desperately wished to be excluded from. 

“I like to wake early, unlike _some_ of us,” she sighed, half bored. “While you were sleeping half the day away, John and I were enjoying some lovely pastries as we got to know each other.” 

Roger’s head snapped towards the now empty brown bag that once held the morning buns, his face falling in disappointment. 

“You got morning buns and didn’t save one for me?” he cried, abandoning his mug on the side to make his way over to them. John watched in faint amusement as he opened the bag as though there was another one hidden at the bottom. “Deaks! How could you?” 

“The early bird catches the worm,” John shrugged, raising the mug to his lips. He didn’t bother mentioning that they had finished off the last of the milk for their second pot of tea; Roger would discover that soon enough on his own. 

“I cannot believe you’re both being so mean,” Roger pouted, turning to return to his tea making. “Here I am, just waking up, and already getting bullied.” 

Dominique made her way to him, wrapping her arms around him in a mockery of a hug, her face pressed into the thin-worn t-shirt he was wearing. “Poor little rockstar,” she teased. “How can I make it up to you?” 

John had the sudden urge to leave. Clearing his throat, he grabbed at his half drunk tea, now uncomfortably luke-warm, and made for his room with an excuse of needing to shower. As he fled the kitchen, he could just see the two of them embracing, Roger’s hand slipping down the arch of her spine to rest on the curve of her arse. 

Flushed, John threw himself into the bathroom, pressing his head against the door as he counted down from ten over and over until he was able to breathe again.

*

John was wrong. 

Dominique was not a meaningless fling, or a number scribbled on a scrap of paper. She spent the next night with Roger, and the night after that, and then, before John even knew it, she was _Roger’s girlfriend_. It was his worst nightmare: Roger had finally decided to settle down, meet a nice girl, and end his restless nights playing Don Juan. It was stark, the difference between Before Dominique and After. 

Before Dominique, John was guaranteed at least fifty percent of Roger’s undivided and unmitigated attention, shared begrudgingly with Freddie who absorbed the other fifty percent with the distinct impression that it was less than he was owed but that he would graciously accept it. For now. John knew that on any given day he could ask Roger if he wanted to go grab a drink, a film, a pizza. John could call, and Roger would answer. It was like Roger was his own shadow—there’s Roger, there’s John. Roger, John. 

After Dominique, well. 

Three’s a crowd, and it was no more obvious to John than when he was stuck on the sidelines as Roger and Dominique snuggled on the couch, fought over who would pay for their movie tickets, fed each other bites of their dinner lovingly, or dominated the bus bench as they curled together like bananas in a bunch. John found himself having to fight for Roger’s attention; if Dominique was within a ten mile radius it was a hopeless cause, only made more apparent by the fact that when they were apart, Roger would speak of her, and only her:

“Dom made me this French soup last night, and it was so fucking good, Deaks, you have no idea,” Roger sighed, flopping down onto the bed next to John. “I swear, we have _got_ to learn how to cook, we’re missing out on so much.” 

Or: 

“Have you seen that new James Bond movie? Dom and I have tickets for this weekend, thinking we might grab dinner at that little Greek place you showed me, remember?” 

Or, worse yet:

“Deaks, I gotta ask a favor of you. Any chance you could spend the night at Freddie’s tomorrow night? Dom’s coming back from visiting her family, and it would be brilliant if we could get the flat to ourselves. I promise, I’ll owe you one!” 

John was the unwilling background character in every part of Roger and Dom’s story. It was hard, almost impossible, to see the man he loved more than anything else be in a relationship with the very antithesis of himself. For everything Dominique was—confident, sexy, brilliant, charming—John was not. And he knew it. Putting aside the fact that Dominique was a woman, there was no chance that Roger would ever look at him as anything other than his best friend or, worse yet, little brother. It was a hard lesson John was fighting to accept. 

And fight he did. 

He spent his nights doing his best to forget Roger in seedy clubs, in the taste of countless shots, the buzz of another line of coke, in the thrill of another man’s hands on himself. John let himself get taken home by men of all sorts in the hope that he’d find his release from Roger somewhere in between their sheets and an orgasm. He prayed that one night he’d look across the crowd and see him, see the man who would replace Roger in his heart. Instead of finding peace, he only found more trouble. 

It was impossible for him not to compare every man he came in contact with to Roger. They weren’t pretty enough, or too pretty; they didn’t have the same wit, the same color eyes. Too short or too tall, too blond, or not blond at all. Every single hook up, every single fumbled blow job or fuck in a bathroom stall or alley or bedsit ended with the same heartbreaking realization: they were not Roger. 

There would never be anyone else for John, never be another Roger.

*

It was always a new experience, hooking up with a man. Men were hard where women were soft, more powerful, and stronger. John loved to be held down and made to take everything, in the same way that he loved making someone else take it. It was different to be the one getting pushed down onto the bed, the one who’s wrists fit so nicely in someone else’s hands, to wake up the next morning with bruises on his hips. Bruises that he loved to trace the next morning, reminiscing about how good it had been. 

He was still pressing his thumb into the meat of one such bruise when he snuck back into the flat at two in the morning, doing his best to be quiet. Tiptoeing his way into the kitchen, he poured himself a large glass of tap water, chugging the whole of it as fast as he could. They were needed in the studio tomorrow, he couldn’t exactly roll up hungover, no matter how many times Roger or Freddie had before. 

Humming to himself, he went to the back of the pantry, pulling out his secret stash of teacakes and carefully selecting one, tucking the rest of them back behind the bag of flour where he knew Roger would never look. 

He was about to make his way back to his room when the overhead light turned on, startling him. With a wounded cry, he dropped his teacake. 

“My cake,” he said forlornly, hand reaching out towards where it had fallen uselessly. 

“Oh, shit, John,” cursed Dominique, rushing from the doorframe to his side. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d come back.” 

“My cake,” John repeated, just as sad. 

“It’s fine, look!” Dominique stooped over, picking up the cake and blowing any dirt off it before handing it back to him. “Good as new.” 

“Thanks,” he said, taking the treat from her carefully. They stood next to each other awkwardly, Dom studying his face carefully, a strange look on her face that John couldn’t read. He cleared his throat, “Would you...would you like one?” 

Dom shook her head, laughing softly, her eyes still glued to his face. “No, thank you. Roger’s warned me over how possessive you are of the treats. And, may I suggest moving them? He found them last week behind the flour. Maybe in the stew pot? He’ll never check there.” 

Groaning, John stamped his foot like a child before grabbing the box and hiding it where she’d suggested, grumbling about all the different ways he was going to kill him should he steal _another_ one. 

“He really is a menace, huh,” Dom laughed. 

“He’s an arsehole,” John grunted, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the counter. “Don’t know what you see in him.” 

Dom made her way to stand across from him, tentative. John knew that there wasn’t a real connection between the two of them; whatever they had stood fragile as glass, one wrong move could wreck it all. 

“He has his moments,” Dom said carefully. “He can’t cook, but he’ll eat anything you put in front of him. He’s easy on the eyes, too. And—” She looked at John, pausing as though weighing her options before she continued, “—I never really have to worry about stubble burn.” 

John nodded, stuffing the last of the cake into his mouth. “Roger couldn’t grow a beard if his life depended on it. It’s the one thing he can’t do. Well, that, and ride a horse. He’s deathly afraid of them.” 

Dom smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “My old boyfriend,” she said casually. “He used to be able to grow a wonderful beard, but wasn’t able to keep it for work. He worked in finance. So he had to shave every day. At night, when he’d kiss me, I’d get this _awful_ beard burn, all over my face— even my neck! It would hurt terribly.” 

John recrossed his arms; he didn’t understand how they suddenly got onto the topic of Dom’s ex-boyfriend, but it certainly wasn’t something he wanted to continue discussing. 

“Right,” he drawled, inching his way to the bathroom. “That sounds terrible.” 

“It was,” Dom continued, following him. “I tried everything, but nothing would make it better.” 

“That’s terrible,” John repeated. “But listen, it’s late—” 

“I have a cream,” she blurted out, grabbing John by the arm. “It will make it go away.” 

John stared at her; she stared right back. Apparently, they had been having a conversation, but whatever Dominique was putting down, John was not picking up. 

“I’m...happy for you?” John said, carefully. “That’s, uh, that’s great.” 

She narrowed her eyes, opening and closing her mouth before nodding. “Right, um, okay. Just, uh, come with me?” 

Not even waiting for him to agree, she began tugging him down the hallway towards the bathroom, shoving him through the door and up against the sink. Flicking the lights on, she came to stand next to John, the two of them reflected in the mirror. 

“I have a cream,” she repeated, staring at him through the mirror. 

“Dom, I’m sorry,” John huffed. “But I am just not following—” 

He cut himself off, actually catching sight of himself in the mirror. His entire lower face--mouth, lips, cheeks, even his _neck_ — were covered in a red, patchy rash, bright against his British pallor. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” John breathed, leaning in to look at his face. “What—?” 

“Beard burn,” Dom said solemnly. “I used to get it, but like I said, I have a cream.” 

Fear trickled icy hot down John’s spine as he broke out in a cold sweat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t have beard burn, obviously I’m having some kind of reaction, or—” 

“I’m not going to say anything,” Dominique whispered, her voice respectfully quiet despite John’s high pitched cries of terror. “Believe me, I won’t say a word! My— my brother, he’s like you, he’s gay—” 

“I am _not_ gay!” John hissed, turning away from her to stumble back. “I’m not!” 

Dominique held out her hands to placate him. “Alright, I’m sorry, you’re not. But that... _whatever_ it is...isn’t going to go away, not on it’s own. Just, try the cream? It might help. And if it _is_ beard burn, or whatever else it might be, it will make the rash go away overnight. So no one else will see it. Alright?” 

His heart felt like it would beat right out of his chest as he stared at her, terrified. She could tell Roger, could tell the press, air out his dirty laundry, hold this over his head. Whatever was on his face, she must have realized his panic. 

Carefully, she reached out, placing her hand on his upper arm. “John,” she whispered, soothingly as if she were attempting to approach a wounded animal. “Your secret is safe with me. Just let me help you, alright?” 

One beat, then two, before he nodded, giving in. With a tentative smile, she moved to open the medicine cabinet, pulling out a little pot of cold cream that John hadn’t even realised now lived in their bathroom. 

He’d noticed the razor and toothbrush; had had a minor breakdown over what the arrival of the tampons under the sink meant. It wasn’t even worth mentioning the night he discovered her shampoo and conditioner in the shower, which had led to him clutching the bottle and having a little cry in the tub. 

“You just need a little,” she advised. “A pea sized amount, really. And then you just rub it in, gently, in little circles. And when you wake up, it will be gone.” 

He did as he was told under her watchful eye, adding more to his neck when she pointed out a spot that he’d missed. When he was sufficiently moisturized, she stepped back, returning the little pot to its rightful place. 

“I won’t mind if you use it,” she said casually. “In fact, I’ve got more than one jar, if you’d like to keep this one. I don’t use it as much, now.” 

Awkwardly, John fumbled with his hands, unsure of what to do. “Erm, thanks.” 

She hesitated before quickly darting into hug him, her arms wrapped tight around his waist. Just as quick as she did, she pulled back. 

“Of course, John,” she smiled warmly. “And I meant it, you don’t have to worry about me. Does Roger—?” 

“No!” John felt ill. “No, no he doesn’t, and I don’t— I don’t want him too.” 

Again, he couldn’t read her expression, but he relaxed at the sight of her nodding, her expression careful. John didn’t know why, but he trusted her, trusted that she meant what she said. She reached out to grab his hand, squeezing it in hers before she let go to cover her mouth as she yawned. One glance at his watch told him it was late, far later than it should be considering the two of them had work in the morning. 

Bidding her goodnight, John left the bathroom for his own room, flopping down onto the bed and burying his face in his pillow, the cream cool on his skin. He pressed down on his hips again, leaning into the burn, letting it wash over him as he slipped into sleep.

*

Sometimes, John wished he was strong enough to throw in the towel and quit the band. If he were stronger he’d pack his bags and move out of the flat they shared, tell Freddie and Brian he was sorry, and move to Guernsey or Siberia or Tanzania or the plains of Kansas. He’d leave behind his broken heart and the sight of Roger beaming from behind his kit or yawning over his coffee mug or dressed to the nines. If John were stronger, he’d find the ability to walk away from everything and everyone and redefine himself in a world where he didn’t crave every touch and word from Roger that he could get. 

He toyed with it once, leaving. Had the whole thing planned, his script in hand and a meeting on the books with Miami. Hell, he’d even spent the better part of two weeks with a paper in hand circling available flats, hiding the papers in the very back of his closet where he knew Roger would never check, just in case. But at the very last minute, he’d called Miami up and canceled. It wasn’t even the fear of never seeing Roger again, it was the thought of breaking Roger’s heart the way that his own was. Leaving the band would be a slight Roger could never forgive and John was at least strong enough to admit that he would never be able to forgive himself for hurting Roger. 

And nor could he face the knowledge that once it was done, once he had broken that foundation of trust between them, Roger would never welcome him back. It hurt now, yes, to live a hairsbreadth and a Dominique away from what he truly wanted but how would he be able to live without any of it? Without any of him? How would he survive, on the plains of Kansas or some other nowhere, not knowing how Roger was? What he’d had for tea, and his exact opinion on the latest sci-fi thriller that had just come out? Yes, he had the murmurs of Roger’s voice that whispered to him regardless of whether or not he wanted to hear him — he’d turned a man down just the other night because Roger, the one that lived somewhere between his mind and his heart, had disparaged the state of his sideburns and John just _couldn’t_ — but, well, Roger always managed to surprise him. 

Sometimes John thought that that was what kept him caught in this interminable web. Love wasn’t just comfort and familiarity, it was also the continual spark of discovery that had the breath hitching in his throat as Roger waxed poetic about the political theories of an Italian bloke John had never even heard of. 

How would John live without that? He wasn’t sure he could.

Depressed and horrified at his own cowardice, John hid from the others in the back of a smoke filled pub and scribbled out all his anger and frustration on the back of a stack of coasters, swiping away tears and snot with the back of his hand in between gin and tonics. _Who Needs You_ , John wrote, hissing out his pain with each word. Who needs you, indeed. 

John didn’t know if he was writing to Roger, or himself. 

“This, uh, this certainly is something,” Brian frowned as he read over the paper the next morning. John ignored Brian’s worried looks in favor of picking at a hangnail on his thumb, grateful for the sunglasses that did wonders for his hangover while masking his blood shot eyes. 

“Something good or something bad,” John grunted. 

Brian shrugged, putting the paper down next to him. “Listen, Deacy,” he said slowly. “I know that we’re, uh, we’re not the best—what I mean to say, is that we don’t normally…” He looked at John as though expecting him to fill in the blanks, adding as an afterthought when John didn’t say anything; “Talk.” 

“We’re talking now.” 

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Brian sighed. “I mean, this is normally more Roger or Freddie’s thing. But if you need me, or need to uh, talk—”

“I’m fine.” 

Brian nodded, taking him at his word. “Good, good, alright. I guess, uh, I guess we can start working on this. Have you got your bass line already written?” 

“Actually,” John said, treading carefully with the knowledge that he was stirring the pot. “I was thinking we’d keep it acoustic.”

*

As expected, the news that John had not only written a new song but wanted it to be completely acoustic, therefore making Roger’s role moot, went over like a hornets nest getting shot. John had prepared for Roger’s opinion — something usually shared loudly and at length with the occasional projectile — by spending the evening and most of the night hiding in a club, only to find once he tiptoed back into the flat, boots in hand, that Roger had spent the night at Dominique’s and therefore hadn’t been told. The petty little bastard on John’s shoulder told him that it served him right—let him discover his role, or lack thereof, when he finally pried himself out of Dominique’s embrace. 

John decided in that moment, swaying drunkenly in the front hall and furious at Roger for not being there, for not having heard, that he wouldn’t bring it up. Let Roger discover it on his own, John didn’t care. 

Except that he did. He did care; more than he wanted to admit. It hurt that Roger wasn’t there and that he was finding everything out second hand because he had better things to do, better places to be, better people to fuck. Roger was moving on without John and, while he knew it had to happen eventually, it didn’t soothe the sting.

*

John woke to the feeling of a pad of paper slapped across his cheek. In an instant, he went from sleeping peacefully to sitting upright, his heart racing and fists raised in preparation for a fight he hadn’t even known was coming. 

“What the _fuck_ is this?” Roger snarled from next to him. 

“What?” John yelped, pressing one hand to his chest. He felt like he’d run a marathon. “Roger, what time is it?” 

“You want a fucking acoustic song?” Roger raged, slapping him around the head again with the paper, and then once more for good measure. “What the fuck is the meaning of this?” 

Dodging the flying paper, John rolled over to fumble with the alarm clock, squinting at the analog numbers in the dark. “Did you seriously wake me up at six in the morning to yell at me?” 

“Answer the fucking question!” 

John ducked once more, furious. “Give me that!” he snapped, grabbing at the paper and ripping it from Roger’s hand. “Stop that!” 

Roger, now weaponless without his paper, pressed his hands against his hip and glared at John. “You didn’t even have the decency to come tell me yourself, you spineless piece of shite, I had to find out from Freddie! _Freddie!_ ” 

“What’s it to you?” John found himself snarling. All of his pent up rage, his fury at being replaced by Dominique and frustration at pining over someone completely unattainable, boiled up within him. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” Roger continued unabated, as if John hadn’t spoken at all. “What, were we just going to record the whole fucking album and you were just gonna slip it past me? ‘Oh, Roger, no, we’d filled a spot with a song that we don’t want you working on _at all_ ’! Do you think I’m stupid?” 

John was getting pretty tired of feeling ignored: “I think you’re acting rather stupid right now, yes!”

That was clearly the wrong answer, made all the more apparent by Roger puffing out his chest, his hands clenched in fists at his side. John had seen Roger on the verge of enough bar fights to know that he was in dangerous territory, but that didn’t seem to stop him from barreling through. “Not everything has to be run past you, Roger!” 

“Jesus, John, where the fuck do you get off—” 

“Oh, save me the lecture, Rog,” John rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I didn’t tell you, boo fucking hoo. It’s not the first acoustic song we’ve done, and it won’t be the last. We’ve plenty of songs that you haven’t played on—”

“Not songs written by you!” Roger bellowed, his face turning bright red. “Never by you!” 

“Well,” John blustered. “Now I have.” 

Roger took a deep breath, the force of which seemed to be pulled from the depths of his chest. Setting his jaw, Roger glared at John from beneath his fringe. “Honestly, John, it’s like I have no idea who the fuck you are anymore.” 

John recoiled, gobsmacked. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

Roger waved his hands in the air at him, gesturing to the whole of him. “It means, look at you John! You come in all hours of the night off your fucking face, smelling like the alley of a pub and covered in hickeys—” At Johns scandalized look, Roger rolled his eyes. “Oh, come off it, don’t act like it’s such a surprise. Honestly? You’re shocked that I’ve noticed? Look at you John! What, did Henry the Hoover have a go at your neck?” 

John slapped his hand over the rather vivid and frankly, massive, lovebite that his paramour du jour had spent half the night sucking below his ear the night before, but the damage had already been done. 

“For fuck’s sake, John, you’re never here, you never want to do anything—”

“That’s not true!” John cried. _You’re always with Dominique!_

“—I never know where you are or who you’re with—”

“I am allowed to have friends that aren’t _you_ , Roger,” John spat with as much vitriol as he could manage. It worked; Roger flinched, stepping backwards. 

The two of them fell silent. Under the weight of John’s words, shot like a weapon and built to hurt, there was no remedy that could right his wrong. 

“Roger,” John said softly. “Roger, I—”

“I know you’re allowed friends,” Roger said, his voice fragile like glass. “And you’re allowed to do things without me. I just...I just wish you’d be _honest_ with me.” 

He ignored the crack in Roger’s voice in favor of his own pity. _No you don’t_ , John thought to himself. _Because if I were honest, you’d never want to speak to me again_. 

The two of them sat in silence for a beat, then two, before Roger left, shutting the door behind him. John groaned long and loud before flopping onto his back and yanking the pillow over his head.

*

If he thought being pushed aside in favor of Dominique was bad, being ignored by Roger was even worse. Roger wasn’t cruel about it; he kept things perfectly pleasant and polite, keeping up the appearance of everything being alright. But beneath the layers of arm’s length cordiality lay a shoulder cold enough to make John hurt. He knew he’d fucked up, knew that he had purposefully made it seem like Roger was being unnaturally clingy when in fact it was John who had been overcompensating for his fear of losing Roger by deliberately pushing him away. John was lashing out, and he’d hurt Roger in the crossfire. Little did he know that he, too, was going to end up burned. 

He’d wanted Roger’s anger — and the attention that came with it — but he’d forgotten what came after.

The very worst part was that Roger was so fucking professional. Unlike John, who could never let something go, no matter the circumstance, Roger kept a level head and refused to allow his feelings seep into the studio. He acted as though nothing was wrong when they were discussing new songs, or working on the recording, to the point that John honestly thought it had blown over. It wasn’t until they broke for lunch did Roger scamper immediately out of view, tugging Freddie out the door by the hand, leaving Brian and John alone. 

John couldn’t remember the last time Roger had left him behind for lunch during a session when it wasn’t due to one of them being busy; they had always spent their lunches together, playfully arguing over where to eat or what to get. From the corner of his eye, he could see Brian watching him with something akin to pity. 

“John,” he said slowly. “Would you like to go get lunch with me?” 

John scowled; he didn’t need Brian’s pity. “No thank you.” 

“Are you sure? I was planning on going to that little Thai place you like,” Brian cajoled. “You can get Tom Khai Gai.” 

No matter how much he wanted to find a dark corner to sulk in while licking his wounds, John couldn’t turn down the offer of a good curry. Scowling harder, John skulked his way to the coat rack, grabbing his before chucking Brian’s in his direction. 

“You’re paying,” he snapped as he stormed out towards the car park. 

Brian had the decency to wait until John had ordered—and consumed—his first beer before he cleared his throat, resting his forearms on the edge of the slightly sticky vinyl table. Tensing in preparation for the lecture he knew was coming, John slouched in his seat like a cantankerous toddler having a wobble. 

“How’re you doing?” Brian asked widening his eyes in a way that John knew he thought made him look more sympathetic. It really just made him look like he’d sat on a tack and was trying not to let anyone know. 

“Hungry,” John grunted. “Tired. Annoyed.” 

Brian hummed before asking like the world’s worst therapist; “And why is that?” 

“Because instead of enjoying my beer you’re here wrecking it by asking stupid questions.” 

The weight of Brian’s unimpressed glare spoke volumes. John refused to feel shame. 

“Do you want to talk about what’s been going on?” Brian pressed, pushing his vegetarian curry around with his fork. John scowled. 

“No.” 

“Is this about Roger?” 

“This is about it being none of your business, and had I known I was going to be undergoing an interrogation, I wouldn’t have come.” John slammed his fork down on the table with much prejudice. 

“It is my business when you and Roger are creating a hostile work environment,” Brian continued, either unaware or uncaring that he was treading on thin ice. John envisioned picking up his fork and plunging it into the back of Brian’s hand. 

He counted down from ten. 

“Tell you what, Brian, when it becomes your problem, I’ll let you know,” he hissed through gritted teeth, shooting the hovering waitress a thin smile. “Until then, fuck _off_.” 

“I’m not going to pretend I understand your relationship,” Brian shrugged, unfazed by the threat. “But one thing that I do know is that the two of you care about each other a great deal. And when you fight, it makes all of us miserable.” 

“We’re not fighting,” John defended.And they weren't. Fights with Roger meant screaming matches and items thrown across the room. Roger fought like a burst of lightning: quick, hot, and devastating in the aftermath. This was awkward silences made heavy with sad overtures politely, carefully rebuffed. Fights with Roger were loud and frustrating and charged with a kind of exhilaration that often saw John trawling a bar later on to try and match the intensity he'd felt throwing words and belongings at one another in the touch of another man. This wasn't a fight, this was the opposite of a fight. This was Roger, having inspected the battlefield in the wake of an almighty clash, deciding the bloodshed wasn't worth it.

John was lost, and he couldn’t find his way back into Roger’s good graces. 

“Alright, John,” Brian said mildly. 

“We’re _not_.” 

“I know,” Brian shrugged again. “If you say you aren’t, you aren’t.” 

“We’re just— we’re working some things out,” John’s shoulders rose up to his ears as he scrunched down in his seat, furious that he’d have to even attempt to defend himself to Brian. 

“Look,” Brian sighed. “When I first started dating Chrissie, it was awkward between me and Roger, too. It’s always hard when one friend gets into a relationship when the other isn’t. You have to find a new solid ground, have to share your time with another person. But that doesn’t lessen your friendship with each other in the slightest.” 

Sometimes, John forgot that Brian had worked as a teacher. He certainly had a very diplomatic way of explaining things. 

“Roger is going to put Dominique first, because he loves her.” 

John felt like he’d been shot, and was sure even Brian couldn’t have missed the grunt of pain he made as he hunched forward over his pho. While he knew, intrinsically, that Roger did love Dominique, it was never something that had been spoken aloud. 

“But,” Brian added, kindly. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you too. You’re one of his best friends, John. He’ll never replace you in his life.” 

John scowled. When Brian put it like that, it sounded pathetic, almost like something Julie would have come home crying about when she was barely fresh from primary school. It was juvenile and pathetic and unfortunately one-hundred percent true. John felt like he was being replaced, he felt like he was losing Roger to Dominique, and he was desperately trying to cling to whatever little piece of him he could. 

Of course, he was also in love with him. For a moment the visual of Brian’s expression if he threw that out, the attempts to come up with something equally diplomatic in the face of that particular revelation, almost tempted him. Pettiness, however, hadn’t gotten him very far in the past couple of days and God only knew he didn’t want _Brian_ of all people becoming party to his shame.

“Look,” Brian continued in his gentle tone. “I know it will be hard. But things will work out, you’ll see! You’ll find a nice girl, settle down, and everything will go back to normal.” 

Snorting, John looked away. A nice girl, right. Too bad every nice girl he’d ever met was distinctly lacking a penis. 

“I guess,” John sighed, busying himself with his beer. 

Brian brightened, perking up in time for the waitress to bring their second round of drinks. “Actually, if you’re interested, one of Chrissie’s friends from book club just broke up with her boyfriend. I could maybe set you up? If you’d like?” 

It took all of John’s willpower not to pull a face at the thought. He liked Chrissie, and Brian was a good friend, but there was very little chance he’d find common interest in a mutual friend of theirs. Roger once went on a date with a girl Chrissie had met while volunteering at the hospital after Brian’s bought with hepatitis. He’d practically thrown himself into the flat afterwards, green around the gills and ruminating on the fact that she’d spent the better part of the evening describing in far too much detail about an abscessed cyst she’d had to clean earlier that day. John would rather take his chances on the men in clubs than find himself in the same predicament. 

“Erm,” John said carefully, suddenly very interested in his curry. “That’s, uh— what I mean is, that I don’t think I— I think Chrissie’s friend might be looking for something serious and I’m...not.” 

Brian made a thoughtful face before nodding. “I understand. And hey, if I weren’t in something serious, I’d be doing the same as you! A whole ocean of fish out there for the taking, eh?” Brian added with a waggle of his eyebrows. John took a rather large bite to keep himself from saying something untoward.

*

Lunch ran late, but John didn’t find himself minding. After the awkward mess of Brian attempting to solve his and Roger’s issues, while remaining blissfully ignorant of the underlying issue at the root of it all, they spent the rest of lunch discussing work. For the first time in a while— and it could have everything to do with the fact that they were in public, wherein brawls and screaming matches tended to be frowned upon— they found themselves getting along famously. They were still laughing over a joke Brian had made when paying the bill as they walked back into the studio, the two of them hazy with good food and better beer. 

“Well you certainly took your time,” Freddie drawled from the corner. He’d draped himself elegantly over one of the chaise lounges he’d insisted needed to be added for ‘artistic license’, and despite his words being directed at the two of them, he only had eyes for John. John squirmed under the unwanted attention. 

“Lunch ran late,” Brian shrugged. “Which, while we were eating, John and I had a few suggestions—” 

“Did you now,” purred Freddie, still pinning John with his rather heavy gaze. “ _In_ teresting.” 

John had the distinct feeling that whatever Freddie was talking about had little to do with his and Brian’s suggestions. He looked around the room, frowning when he realized Roger wasn’t there. 

“Where’s Roger?” John found himself asking before he could stop himself. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Freddie picked at his cuticles. John flushed. 

“Alright,” John said. He knew when he was being cornered, and refused to dance to Freddie’s tune. “Fine.” 

Brian looked between the two of them, his brow furrowed, as he struggled to figure out what the hell was going on. John only hoped that when he figured it out, he’d let him know. 

“ _Roger_ ,” Freddie announced, elongating his name to frankly ridiculous proportions. “Has decided to take a well deserved leave of absence for the rest of the day. He’s taking Dominique to the Chanel exhibition at the Victoria and Albert museum.” 

Against his will, John’s hands clenched into fists as he fought the urge to scream. Across the room, Freddie looked maliciously triumphant as Brian cut a look at him from the corner of his eye. John forced himself to calm down, smoothing his expression into something calm and stoney. 

“I’ve heard it’s fantastic,” John said almost robotically. “Mack’s assistant told me she’d enjoyed it. Dominique must be thrilled.” 

He didn’t even bother seeing Freddie’s reaction; he picked up an acoustic guitar, settling himself down on his own chair instead. 

“Brian and I were thinking that _Who Needs You_ needs to be at a fast pace,” John continued as though nothing was amiss. “We’ll need you to step it up, please.” 

Freddie cocked an eyebrow and refused to move. John, at his wits end, turned to Brian. 

“Alright, then,” he said, doing very little to keep the annoyance from his voice. “Brian, why don’t you take lead on it, then, if Freddie is so unwilling to participate?” 

“Bitch is _not_ a good look on you, darling,” Freddie cooed, twisting so as to rest his head on his hand and flutter his eyelashes in his direction. John glowered. Across the room, Brian cleared his throat. 

“Erm, John, why don’t we just show him what we’d like?” 

“No need,” Freddie sighed. “I’d hate to upset John any further. Faster, you said? Careful, if we went any faster we’d have to get a drum beat in just to keep time.” 

The strings of the guitar cut into his fingers as he clenched the neck of the guitar. Mentally, he counted backwards from ten and prayed for patience.

*

When he finally got home from the studio, Dominique was sitting in the living room watching tv. From the smell of it, Roger was burning popcorn in the kitchen. 

“Oh, hello, John!” Dominique called, her voice bright and friendly. John scowled, blanking her as he stormed his way into his room, slamming the door behind him. 

Dramatically, he threw himself onto the bed and buried his face into his pillow. Fighting the urge to scream, he momentarily contemplated suffocating himself in the hope that his dead, decaying body would make everything better. At the very least, it would solve most of his problems: he couldn’t struggle with his sexuality and love for his best friend if he were dead, now, could he? 

In the living room, he could vaguely hear Dominique and Roger talking. Not for the first time, John wished with all his heart that he had the strength to move out of the apartment. 

Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes and counted back from ten until he drifted off into a restless nap. 

When he awoke, the sun had set completely, and the flat was silent. The alarm clock on his bedside table read eight o’clock; he’d slept completely through dinner. Rubbing his hands down his face, John poked his head out into the hallway, checking for any lights or signs that Roger and Dominique were still there. When he couldn’t see anything that would give them away, he tiptoed his way into the bathroom for a piss. 

He was just washing his hands when he noticed something shiny out of the corner of his eye. Upon further inspection, his stomach clenched in humiliated fury. A condom wrapper, left on the floor by the toilet, having missed the bin by a good three inches. Roger and Dominique had had sex recently, probably while he was in the apartment. 

Fury welled up within him as he stared at the wrapper, unable to even think straight. The idea of Roger and Dominique, tangled together, fucking in the flat— fucking in the _bathroom_ — made John fight to keep his cool. 

_Well_ , he thought. _Two can play at that game_. 

Storming from the bathroom, he went straight to his closet and started throwing his clothes around in search of something to wear, something hot and sexy and way too immodest. Something that would warrant the attention he so desperately craved. He was going to go out and find someone who would fuck him until he forgot that Roger fuckin’ Taylor ever even _existed_.

*

There was a doorknob pressing itself into the middle of John’s back, hard and aching, sure to leave a bruise in the morning, but John didn’t care so long as the man he’d allowed to take him home continued sucking on the tip of his tongue. John groaned, raising his hands to run through the man’s dark hair— complete opposite of Roger’s blonde— and pulling him in closer to feel the hard length of his erection against his own. John let the man press up against him, the warmth of his hands on the base of his spine. He kissed him slow and sensual, like he wanted to taste all of John, and John let him. 

“Fuck me,” John demanded, panting into the wet expanse of the man’s mouth. 

The man chuckled, tenderly thumbing at the apple of John’s cheek. Daringly, John moved to suck his thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the pad of his thumb. The man’s eyes darkened as he groaned, his hips thrusting forward. 

“If you want—” 

“I want,” John interrupted around the thumb in his mouth. “I want you to.” 

The man laughed again, but not unkindly. “Pushy,” he teased, pulling away to kiss John again. “I like pushy.” 

John let himself get manhandled towards the couch, the man pushing him down to fall onto the cushion. Leaning backwards, he let the man drape himself over him, all the while kissing him firmly. 

Sighing, John tried his best to fall into the rhythm. The man reached under his shirt to thumb at one of John’s nipples, and he shivered, letting out a little moan of pleasure. He wondered if Dominique, too, was sensitive. If Roger was doing the same to her, too. 

John flinched, doing his best to cover it up by reaching up to lock his arms behind the man’s neck, swallowing any comment he’d might have made otherwise. He let his shirt get tugged up and over his head, letting go of the man briefly before clinging to him again like a life raft in a storm.

As the man worked on John’s belt, he worked on sucking a hickey into the man’s collar, using his teeth to darken it beautifully. 

“This belt is impossible,” the man laughed, huffing a bit. “Where did you get it?” 

It was Roger’s, he’d stolen it when they’d returned from tour and had never bothered giving it back. John frowned, his hips stilling from the rhythmic thrusts he’d been humping against the man’s. 

“I don’t know,” lied John around a lump in his throat. 

“Doesn’t matter,” the man shrugged once he’d finally gotten it undone. 

_Doesn’t matter_ , John repeated to himself, tilting his head back and trying to force himself to forget. _Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, doesn’t—_

“Stop,” the man huffed, pulling away from John and scooching down the couch, putting half a cushion between them. “Are you alright?” 

“What? Yes, of course,” John frowned as he shook himself out of wherever he’d gone. “I’m fine. Are you fine?” 

“You don’t seem into it,” the man said gently.

“I’m into it,” grouched John. 

The man glanced down at John’s crotch, where what was once a raging hard on had faded into something less excited. Scowling, John shifted away, fighting the urge to push the heel of his palm into his lap and hide. 

“What’s going on in there?” the man asked, his eyes gentle and soft. John flushed in humiliation under his gaze as he made to leave. Typical, fucking typical, he couldn’t do anything right.

“If you don’t want to do this anymore, that’s all you had to say!” 

The man leaned back against the cushion as he watched John struggle to get his shirt over his head and buckle his pants despite the alcohol. “I’m not exactly into getting off with someone who isn’t into it as well,” he said carefully. He paused, arched a brow, and added; “Or is it someone who isn’t into _me?_ ” 

John fumbled and dropped his shirt with a curse. The man sighed, rocking forward to run his palms down the thick denim covering his thighs. “Right, that’s what I thought.” 

Of course, it was just his luck that he leapt from the frying pan into the fire. Rushing to explain, John reached his hand out before pulling back, curling into himself. “No, no, it’s not that it’s—fuck, it’s not you, it’s me, and it’s—” 

“It’s alright,” the man shrugged, refusing to look at him. “You don’t have to explain—”

“I’m in love with someone and he doesn’t love me back,” John blurted out. The moment the words left his mouth, he wished he could shove them back down his throat, pry them out of the air and keep them somewhere dark and hidden and safe, where no one else would ever hear them. The man gaped at him, gobsmacked. “Shit.” 

“O...kay,” the man nodded slowly. “Alright. I’m, uh, m’sorry.” 

“S’not your fault.” John hunched into himself, refusing to meet his eyes. “I just...yeah.” 

“Do I look like him?” the man asked. John frowned.

“What?” 

“The guy you’re in love with. Did you come up to me because I look like him?” 

John flushed. No, the man was almost completely the opposite of Roger, except for his smile. When John had seen him under the flashing lights of the club from his spot by the bar, the man had smiled at him so cheekily, so sweetly, that John was immediately transfixed. He’d found himself in front of him before he knew what had happened, and it all went from there. 

“Your smile,” John rubbed the back of his neck. “You remind me of him when you smile, I dunno.” 

The man smiled softly. “Would you like a cuppa?” 

“What?” 

“A cuppa. I figured I can’t send you out into the cold when you’re still drunk, might as well sober you up for a bit before I kick you out,” the man chuckled as he rose to his feet. “S’the least I can do for ya.” 

John followed him into the tiny kitchen, trailing behind him and unsure of himself in the man’s space. “You don’t have to do this,” John protested feebly. A cup of tea did sound nice. “Honestly, I’ve ruined your night—”

“My night’s not ruined,” the man interrupted as he began filling the kettle, purposefully drowning out John’s protests. “It’s barely midnight, we’ve still got more time. Now, I hope you like PG Tips cuz that’s all I’ve got.” 

Something within John’s chest relaxed as he laughed, following the direction of the man’s finger to fetch the box of tea from the cabinet. “PG’s great, mate, thanks.” 

As they waited for the kettle to boil, they shot the breeze asking each other simple questions about their jobs, where they were from, how long they’d lived in London. John was halfway through regaling a story about how he’d made the Deacy Amp when the kettle whistled, sending them scrambling to get their tea poured and seeped to their preference. John screwed his face up in playful disgust over the amount of sugar the man put in his tea, sending him huffing out a little laugh in protest. 

“I know,” he sighed with a roll of his eyes. “Everyone takes the piss but I like it sweet.” 

“Roger once asked for his tea with one and three-sevenths sugar,” John laughed. The man hummed thoughtfully as he slipped past John to return the milk to the fridge. 

“Is Roger the man you’re in love with?” 

John cursed as he sloshed his burning tea onto his hand. Panic thudded in his chest like a trapped bird; in all his time hooking up with men, he never gave real names, never said anything that might give away the fact that he was John Deacon, bassist for a world famous rock band. And yet, here he was revealing to a stranger who’s name he didn’t even know that he loved Roger. 

“It’s alright,” the man soothed, tossing him a tea towel to wipe the tea off his hand and shirt. “It’s not like I know the man, can’t possible go and reveal that his mate’s in love with him.” At John’s glare, he raised both hands up in surrender. “If it makes you feel any better, m’a hairdresser. S’part of my job to listen to people’s secrets and never speak of it again.” 

That did not make John feel better. 

In a now blisteringly awkward silence, the two of them returned to the living room, mugs of tea in hand and struggling to find a neutral topic to discuss. John decided that he didn’t really need a tongue, honestly, so what would it matter if he downed the whole mug of tea if it meant he could leave sooner. Next to him, he could hear the man take a deep breath as though he wanted to speak. Panicking, John blurted out the first thing he could think of, which was unfortunately: 

“His name is Roger and he’s my flatmate. And best mate. And we work together.” 

The man blinked. “Jesus, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to shit where you eat?” 

John barked out a laugh, flushing. “It’s a long story.” 

With a raised brow— and John half thought his face would freeze like that if he ticked it any higher— the man sipped at his tea pointedly. “We’ve got all night.” 

John sighed, reaching up to rub at his temples with one hand. “It’s complicated.” 

“Whose unrequited love story isn’t?” 

“He’s got a girlfriend.” 

The man nodded sympathetically. “Is she terrible?” 

John flopped back onto the cushion with a groan, “ _No_. That’s the worst part— she’s utterly lovely. Really, if I weren’t ass over tea kettle for him, I’d be half in love with her myself. She’s so nice, and really smart, and funny, and I completely get why he wants to marry her, really, I do. It just makes it that much worse that everytime I see her I want to chuck her into traffic.” 

“I see.” 

“She knows,” John added into his mug, avoiding the man’s eyes. 

He sputtered, dropping his mug onto the coffee table and twisting to face John, his face twisted in horror; “That you love him?” 

At that, John flushed red, hurriedly shaking his head. “Oh god no, I don’t think— no, she can’t. I mean, maybe she suspects? _Fuck_.” 

“Hey, hey, hey, no I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.” The man scooted in closer and placed his palm— warm and gentle— on John’s knee. John covered his face with his hands, his breath coming out in rushed little huffs as he whispered his way down from ten. “I’m sure she doesn’t know.” 

“Who am I kidding,” John moaned. “It’s obvious I love him. I wrote him a—” He cut himself off before he could admit he wrote Roger a song. No one knew that _You’re My Best Friend_ was about Roger. “I wrote him a poem.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the man’s mustache twitch as he fought back a smile. 

“Fuck off.” 

“I didn’t say anything!” the man protested.

“You didn’t have to,” John moaned. “I know, it’s pathetic. Worst of all? He has _no_ idea. Doesn’t even know I’m...doesn’t even know I’m, well, you know.” 

“Gay?” 

John pulled a face. “I don’t think I’m gay. I was in a relationship a few years back, with a woman, and I really did love her. Honestly, I did. But Roger—” John trailed off, glancing down at his knee and tracing patterns into the denim. “Roger is something completely different altogether.” 

The man hummed. “So what are you going to do about it?”

John tipped his head back as he laughed wetly. “There’s nothing _to_ do. I just have to get over him. Somehow.” His silence spoke volumes; John side eyed him carefully. “You don’t agree?” 

“No, no, I do,” the man shrugged. “If Roger is straight and in a committed relationship, and you can’t see any hope, then why keep torturing yourself?” 

John squirmed in his seat. It was a question he’d asked himself thousands of times before, and if he were completely honest with himself he just didn’t know. He didn’t know why he didn’t move out of the flat, didn’t know why he didn’t quit the band or pull Roger aside and explain that it physically hurt him to see him with Dominique. He could spin it as him still not being over Veronica, could spin it as him being jealous and in love with Dominique. He could just slip into the background and never answer his phone. 

There was no explanation behind love or why he felt the way he did. All he knew was that the thought of a life without Roger didn’t feel worth living. It felt like giving up. 

“I guess I’m a masochist,” John attempted to joke, shrugging one shoulder. The man didn’t laugh; neither did John. “I...I just love him.” 

They sat together on the couch in silence, broken only by the clink of their mugs on the coffee table before them. Outside, John could hear a group of drunken lads making their way down the street, bellowing a Chelsea chant. Once, back before Roger met Dominique and before John realized how he felt, he and Roger had gotten swept up in a mob of Arsenal fans stumbling home celebrating their win. He and Roger had joined in the merriment, shouting out whatever lyrics they could make out, accepting cans of lager and sips of drink as they let the crowd lead them like a river’s current. By the time they managed to break free, it was the early hours of the morning, but it hadn’t bothered them as they’d picked their way back through the London streets towards Freddie’s house, too knackered to make it all the way home. 

“He’s my best friend, and he’s been there for me when no one else was,” John admitted quietly and, if he were honest, brokenly. “What if I tell him, and he never speaks to me again? Not that he’s a gay basher— he’d never, not with F— not with our mate. Our other mate. He’s gay, probably even gayer than I am, to be honest,” John chuckled. “But I mean, imagine if he found out that I loved him. That would make _anyone_ uncomfortable. I’ve never had a friend who cared as much about me as Roger does, and the thought of living without him just...it scares me. I wouldn’t survive losing him.” 

“I think you’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for.” 

John blushed under the compliment, huffing out a sardonic laugh. “Why couldn’t I have just fallen in love with you instead?” 

“Because I’m too good for you,” the man quipped, softening the blow with a little laugh. 

“That’s true,” John agreed. “You definitely deserve better.” 

“So do you. I hope you find someone who loves you as much as you love Roger.” 

John chose to say nothing, instead sipping at his tea, letting his knee knock against the man’s.

*

He ended up leaving a few hours later after changing the topic to previous interactions with other patrons of the club; Jim, as John eventually remembered, insisted on walking him to the door, his hand warm on the small of John’s back.

“Now, remember, if you need anything at all, even if it’s just another cup of tea and a chat, you can always call me,” Jim said with that same grin that had drawn to him in the first place. 

“Thanks, Jim. And the same goes for you, though I can’t promise I’ll be half as good at this as you,” he laughed. There was a brief moment where they did nothing but stare at each other before Jim rolled his eyes, still grinning as he leaned in and pressed a chaste but friendly kiss to John’s lips.

“Best get going.” He opened the door for John, dipping in for another kiss before hip checking him out the door. “Good luck with everything, John.” 

With a wave tossed over his shoulder, John traipsed down the hallway, ducking his head as he shoved his fists into his pockets, picking his way out onto the cold London streets. Choosing to walk instead of hailing a cab, John let the brisk air sober him up completely as he mulled it all over in his head: Jim, Roger, the whole mess of emotions. The only thing John could decide for certain was that he was going to have to move on, let go of Roger before he ended up even more hurt in the long run. 

By the time he’d arrived home, he was stiff with cold and regretting his decision to forfeit a taxi. With dreams of a warm shower and even warmer blankets in his mind, he quietly let himself into the flat, tiptoeing his way to his room. He’d almost made it inside when Roger’s bedroom door flew open, the knob cracking against the hallway plaster, to reveal a sleep rumpled Roger, his eyes wild and furious. 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” John yelped as he jumped half a foot off the ground, pressing his hand to his chest. “What the everloving _fuck?_ ” 

“Where have you been?” Roger spat. John couldn’t help but picture an angry kitten, and if his heart weren’t still beating out of his chest, he’d have laughed. 

“What the fuck are you doing awake, it’s half-four in the morning,” John hissed, ducking his head into his room to read the analog numbers. “Go back to sleep!” 

“Exactly! _Exactly!_ It’s half-four in the morning and here you are sneaking back into the house!” Roger rushed forward to push his finger into the meat of John’s chest, forcing him backwards. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? No note, no word— Freddie didn’t even know where the fuck you’d gone!” 

“Thank you, mother, for caring so much,” John snarked with a roll of his eye. “Sorry to break curfew, I promise I’ll do better next time.” 

If they’d been in a cartoon, steam would have come out of Roger’s ears like a kettle. “This isn’t funny! I get you can do what you want but you can’t just disappear like that without letting someone know! You could have been dead in a ditch!” 

“Well, I’m not, clearly,” John sighed. He could feel the beginning of a headache forming behind his eyes, and all he wanted was to slip under the covers and sleep it off. “Look, I’m tired, and I’m cold, and I’ve got a headache coming on. Please, can we table this until tomorrow? Yell at me than, alright?” 

Roger opened his mouth, then closed it, biting back whatever he wanted to say. Slumping his shoulders, John watched in fascination as the fight left him. “Fine,” he sighed. “Tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” John repeated, turning to his room. He paused, turning back to Roger. “Thank you, though. For caring.” 

Roger softened, his face melting into something completely unreadable as he said imploringly, “Of _course_ I care, John! Of course. You’re my best friend and I love you. I only want you to be happy, and safe. I— I’ve been worried about you. I just want…I want things to go back to before. When you trusted me.” 

John was shocked into silence. “Roger,” he said once he finally regained his ability to speak. “I never stopped trusting you. I’ve always trusted you— where did this come from?” 

He watched in horror as Roger’s face crumpled as he stumbled back. He shook his head, his arms coming up to wrap around his torso as though he were holding himself back.

“It doesn’t matter,” Roger muttered, looking away. 

“It does! It does if you feel this way—” 

“It _doesn’t_ ,” Roger snapped. He flinched back at John’s outstretched hand like a cornered cat, unable to look at him. “Whatever, it’s late—”

“Roger—”

“It’s _late_ , and I’m going to _bed_.” 

With that, Roger turned sharply on his heel and stormed back into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. John didn’t realize how long he stood there, staring that the door and wishing he could take it all back, back to when they trusted each other. 

Back to when his love hadn’t poisoned everything.

*

He didn’t wake up until early afternoon, his mouth cottony with sleep and eyes dry. Grumbling as he hauled himself out of bed, he made his way to the bathroom, half blind from light after so long in the dark. It took him three tries to get his hair to fall right from the rats nest it’d been when he’d woken, and spent at least five minutes just staring at his reflection in disgust. 

Groaning at the effort, John hauled himself into the kitchen, making a beeline for the kettle. The water was freezing; he hissed when it ran down the sides of the kettle onto his hands, but he was so desperate for tea that he chose to grit his teeth and bear it. Slapping the kettle— which was old and dented and beginning to rust at the rim, they’d have to buy a new one— onto the hub, John slumped against the opposite counter and watched in wait for it to boil. 

“A watched pot never boils,” Dominique said from behind, her voice light and teasing. John was too hungover to do anything other than grunt. Of _course_ Dominique had spent the night, and _of course_ she’d probably heard their whole argument. John had the sudden and visceral urge to throw himself, kettle and all, out the window. 

“Morning,” he said once he’d gotten over his little temper tantrum and regained his ability to be polite. 

“Good morning,” she repeated, her voice cryptically light and unwaveringly sweet. It was becoming all the more apparent that John was walking into a trap, but that did nothing to prevent him from barreling forward with little regard. 

“Did Roger already leave?” 

Dominique’s eyes lit up with something akin to victory. “He did,” she sniffed, lifting the mug of coffee— and how the _fuck_ had John missed that there was a fresh pot of coffee— to her lips and taking a brutally long sip. “He decided that he was going to get an early start on his drum line.” 

“Good for him,” snarked John, turning to flip off the kettle. Tea was moot in the face of coffee. 

“Coffee’s gone,” said Dominique. 

John forced himself to take a deep breath, holding it together by the very skin of his teeth. Returning to the hub, he once against set the kettle bubbling, his teeth clenched by the force needed to hold back his ire. 

“Right.” 

“Milk, too,” she added as an afterthought. 

John turned on his heel, fixing her with a glare; “Is there anything else gone that I should know about? The sugar? Tea?” 

Dominique arched one perfect eyebrow. John was absolutely positive his eye twitched as she took a long sip of the remainder of the coffee in a display of dominance. If he weren’t so hungover and pissed off, he’d almost be impressed. 

“No,” she said with all the airs of someone who was in control of the conversation and knew it. 

“Fine,” John snapped, opening the cabinet with much too much force, nearly cracking the mug on the counter as he continued to slam his way around the kitchen. 

“Didn’t sleep well?” Dominique asked. Unconsciously, John hunched into himself in humiliation. Completely ignoring his discomfort, Dominique continued in that cool voice; “Neither did I. There was some sort of commotion at four in the morning. Any chance you know anything about that?” 

“Fuck off.” 

Dominique merely hummed before reaching for the newspaper, flicking it open and pretending to read. Behind him, the kettle whistled, forcing John to turn away. The whole time he was fixing his tea, he couldn’t relax— any minute Dominique would confront him, would tell him that she knew exactly what was going on and why he and Roger had been fighting. She’d call him out for knowing that he was in love with her boyfriend— 

He forced himself to breathe. 

He could hear her moving, the scrape of the chair legs against the linoleum floor. He tensed as he felt her come up behind him, preparing himself for the worst. Instead of a confrontation or a fight, Dominique wrapped her arms around him, tucking her face in between his shoulder blades. 

It was awkward, and uncomfortable, and yet John couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. Despite the fact that he knew she was hugging him out of pity, it was nice. It was nice to know that she knew what he was struggling with, knew why he couldn’t explain to Roger why he was acting so weird. 

“Roger will get over himself,” Dominique muttered into the meat of his shoulder. “He’s just worried about you.” 

“He doesn’t have to, I’m fine,” John grunted, his voice gruff with emotion he refused to release. 

“He does, because you’re his best friend and he loves you.” 

John didn’t know what to say. 

As an afterthought, Dominique added, “Although, he is an idiot. You are, too.” 

“Thanks, Dom, you always know just what to say,” John sighed, failing to keep the laughter out of his voice. 

Pulling away, she smoothed her hand down his back, her hand soothing and firm. “Now,” she teased, tone light. “Tell me all about last night. Did you have fun?” 

John didn’t have to glance at his reflection in the window, he knew that he was burning red. God, he’d never forget the humiliation of confessing his love to a virtual stranger after failing to maintain an erection. He ducked his head, burying his face in his tea. 

“That good?” she whistled. “Or that bad.” 

“Good _bye_ , Dom,” John said pointedly as he fled from the kitchen, her low laughter following him all the way down the hall. 

*

Things did not improve; if anything, they worsened. 

No matter what John did he always seemed to stick his foot in it. For every step forward he’d make trying to right things between him and Roger, he’d end up taking six steps back. The littlest things could set them off: John sided with Freddie on the direction of a song, Roger asked John to a movie only to inform him afterwards that Dominique would be joining them as well, Roger threw a fit when John once again decided to go out on his own instead of joining the band for after-session drinks. Coming home in the early morning led to Roger’s worried and hurt glances from across the recording studio, souring any release or pleasure he’d might have derived. 

John tried, he really did. He agreed to go out and, once the other’s were properly distracted by the booze or the girls or both, he’d duck out the back, slipping down alleyways in order to make his way unseen to the gay bars. He hated lying to them, but it was easier to tell tales of taking a girl home or finding someone to hook up with in the bathroom than explain that he was no longer interested in the fairer sex and was, instead, looking for love in haunts more similar to Freddie’s tastes than Roger’s. 

It made things easier; not by a lot, but enough. John lost count of the amount of times he’d locked eyes with Roger from across the dance floor, finding himself being scrutinized as he let a girl wrap herself around him, let her lead him to the back where’d beg off whatever pleasure she was promising with a kiss and a pat on the bum. 

So, of course, things had to go to shit the moment things felt right once more. 

John had always been careful to rotate the bars he frequented; it didn’t do to become complacent. The last thing he wanted to risk was being a regular— there was too high a chance of being spotted or recognized. That didn’t mean he didn’t have a favorite. The one off King’s Street had the best music, while Church Lane had hired a fantastic bartender who made cocktails that could knock John on his ass faster than you could say gin and tonic. Grey Street was the cleanest, which was saying everything and yet nothing, but it was the one right off Northumberland that was, by far, the best. 

Sure, the floors were sticky and the loos were hit or miss, but the atmosphere was always fun, the music hot, the drinks flowing, and the clientele eager and willing. John had lost count of how many nights he’d spent there letting himself get lost in the draw of the music and the heat of the crowd. It was fun and sexy and above all, it was anonymous. 

There, he was able to let loose, let his hair down, so to speak, and allow someone bigger and broader to hold him tight. John tossed his head back, closing his eyes and letting himself moan as the man kissed along his neck, biting at his tendon while his hands wandered everywhere. When a rough thumb brushed at his nipple over the thin cotton of his white shirt, John gasped, arching himself closer and pushing his cock against the other man’s. 

“You want it, don’t you?” the man growled, hot and heavy in John’s ear. 

“Yes,” groaned John. He reached between the two of them and grabbed at the man’s cock, squeezing the hard line of it in his fist. He grinned wickedly at the resulting moan— he knew he was going to get taken home and fucked within an inch of his life, and he couldn’t wait. 

“Fuck—” The man grabbed at John’s hips with bruising force, rocking them back and forth in time to the bass ripping through the club. John guided the man’s hand from his hip to his arse, pushing him to grope him the way he wanted to. 

“That’s the idea,” John panted, aching fit to burst. “Shall we?” 

The man responded by licking into his mouth, tangling his hand in John’s hair and forcing his head to turn wherever he wanted it. John fought the urge to rut against his hip; he knew he was going to get what he wanted, and the release would be even sweeter if he waited. 

“C’mon,” John whined, pulling back just enough to bite at the hinge of the man’s jaw. Once again, his hand wiggled between the two of them, foreshadowing a promising night if the man would just hurry up. “C’mon, I want it.” 

“Yeah, yeah you do,” the man growled before kissing John hard enough to bruise. “Okay, okay. I’ll take care of you, baby, I promise.” 

John shivered. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the sheer desperation to feel wanted, but the nickname had him growing weak at the knees. Fighting to regain his wits, he looked up at the man through hooded eyes and licked his lips, smirking as the man’s eyes darkened. 

“Lemme pay my tab,” the man murmured. “And then I’m gonna take you home and make you _scream_.” 

Their hands tangled, John let himself get tugged back towards the bar, enjoying the coy looks and smirks from their fellow patrons. He’d been looking forward to this since three days previous when he’d been woken in the middle of the night to the sounds of Dominique moaning, her voice muffled just enough for him to believe that they weren’t trying to wake him, but still loud enough for his imagination to run rampant. 

He’d driven himself mad, listening to her cry out in pleasure, echoed by Roger’s whispers to be quiet. It felt like they’d gone on forever, and John, horrifyingly, found himself growing hard. It wasn’t difficult to imagine that he was in Dominique’s place, that it was him Roger was screwing deep into, that it was his hair he was pulling, his hips he was bruising. He could picture the sheen of sweat on Roger’s brow— akin to that of him playing— and the flush of his cheeks. John knew he’d be unable to look away as Roger played him like a bass, plucking all the right strings to make him sing. John would be helpless to do anything but take it, the same way Dominique was, if her cries were anything to go by. 

John’s hand wrapped itself around his cock by his own accord, tightening at the base as he tugged himself off to the echo of Dominique falling to pieces under Roger’s lips, fingers, and cock. And when, through the thin walls of their flat, John heard Roger’s strangled moan, he, too, spilled over the edge, biting down on his fist hard enough to break the skin so as to mute his own cry of pleasure. 

In the aftermath, sticky and chilled from sweat, John felt nothing but disgust at himself. He couldn’t believe he’d fallen so low that he’d resorted to wanking off to the sound of his best mate and his girlfriend fucking. 

He could hear the squeak of bedsprings as one of them crawled out of bed, their feet soft on the hallway carpet leading to the bathroom. Roger, most likely. He ran the taps at the sink; John imagined him to be wetting a flannel with warm water, most likely to use to clean the two of them up. 

Tears welled in his eyes as he pictured Roger abandoning Dominique in his bed and instead coming to him and cleaning him up. He’d be gentle, and sweet, horribly tender as he washed the sweat and cooled cum from John’s chest, his stomach, his thighs. And when he was done, he’d toss the flannel into the corner of the room before sliding into bed next to John so as to pull him in tight. Together, pressed as close as they could, they’d cuddle until one of them fell asleep, held tight in each other’s embrace. 

Instead, John had to clean himself up with his own dirty t-shirt, all the while biting back shamed tears and disgust. Curling onto his side, he wrapped his arms around himself, holding himself tightly under the covers as he counted back down from ten, desperately trying to keep himself together. 

He couldn’t look at them in the morning, choosing to keep his eyes fixated on his toast instead, a ball of shame thick in his throat. Locking himself in the bathroom, he purposefully took his time, forcing Roger to leave him behind else run the risk of Dominique being late for work. By the time he’d managed to force himself into the studio, the rift he’d built between them had grown to immeasurable lengths. Even Brian, normally too wrapped up in himself to notice anyone else while recording, was shooting the two of them worried looks. 

John was too ashamed to even look at Roger, let alone speak to him. He was convinced that Roger would be able to read it all over him, that John was a filthy pervert who had listened in on an intimate moment and imagined it was him instead.

When Freddie had announced that they were going out to a club, John begged off with a lame excuse of exhaustion, ignoring the weight of Roger’s stare from across the studio. He’d watched as Roger had busied himself fluffing his hair in the hall mirror from his perch on the couch, pretending to be absorbed by the documentary that was playing on the telly. The moment Roger had left with a wave tossed over his shoulder, he’d gone to his room and prepared himself for his own night off. As he himself rushed down the stairs of their flat, John had been fully prepared not to see Roger until the next morning. 

Which was why John stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Roger across the bar, staring with something completely unreadable on his face as the man John had been dancing with pulled him in close and sealed their mouths together. 

Sometimes, John felt as though Roger had been Medusa in another life; one look from him and he was frozen, pinned beneath his gaze; unable or unwilling to move. That was what he felt now, stood stock still as his chosen partner for the night attempted to coax him into the same passion they had been sharing not a minute ago on the dance floor. But John wasn’t the man he’d been a minute ago; no, John was never the same man as he was under Roger’s regard.

Roger’s gaze flickered away for barely a moment, but it was enough. Stone crumbled, his lungs expanded and— 

John did what he did best; he panicked. 

Pressing his hand to the man’s chest, he pushed him off him, stumbling back with wide eyes. The man frowned down at him, reaching back out. 

“You alright?” 

“I know him,” John hissed, his voice high and reedy in fear. “I _know_ — I’m sorry, I have to— fuck, fuck, I have to go!” 

Behind him, he could hear his name over the roaring of blood in his ears, and he didn’t have to turn to see that it was Roger who was calling for him. There was one advantage of having frequented gay bars, and that was how intimate John had become with back exits, whether for raids, fear of getting recognized, or merely the ease it offered when going home with someone. For whatever reason, John knew how to slip through the crowd and escape, unseen, into the back alley, far away from Roger’s prying eyes full of hurt. 

John staggered through the alley, stumbling past empty wooden crates and abandoned boxes as he forced himself towards— well, he didn’t know where. All he knew was that he couldn’t be _there_ or risk being seen again. 

Roger had seen him. He’d watched as John had allowed himself to be groped and kissed and held by a man. He’d seen one of John’s most private moments, and he _knew_. John gagged. 

Bending over at the waist, John fought the urge to purge all the alcohol in his stomach. Shaking, he collapsed down onto the curb and buried his face in his knees. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, shivering and shuddering his way through the panic that so desperately threatened to overwhelm him. He lost track of how many times he counted his way back from ten; a meditative chant that served only to keep him breathing, but did little to actually stifle the bitter chill of fear that beat within his chest like a trapped bird. 

He didn’t know where to go, or who to turn to. Home was not an option: even the mere thought of seeing Roger made his stomach churn. Freddie was definitely not an option—whatever Freddie knew, Roger knew. If he stepped a foot in Garden Lodge, Roger would be on the phone and ready to appear before John had so much as stopped to pet one of the cats. The only thing holding himself back from going to Brian was that he couldn’t bare the thought of Brian’s pitying looks and gentle words. 

John wanted to go somewhere where no one knew him. 

For half a moment, he actually considered going back to the club, finding the man from before, and convincing him to take John back. But the thought of going back there, of seeing Roger again, dissuaded him. 

It was morning when he finally moved again. 

With feet numb from the cold, John trudged his way back towards the flat, hoping that Roger had spent the night at Dominique’s, instead. There was a small part of him that was praying more than anything that Roger _hadn’t_ seen him. Maybe Roger hadn’t recognized him. Would it be believable to see him like that? John had never given a hint to Roger that he cared for the less fairer sex— for all he knew, Roger had merely seen someone that, to him, _looked_ like John. Maybe Roger didn’t actually see him. Roger had notoriously poor eyesight; maybe, amidst the crowds and the cigarette smoke, Roger hadn’t been able to makeout his features and had glanced over him like a stranger on the Tube. 

It was with that faint strain of hope that John finally came upon their flat. In the faint light of morning, it looked unassuming and quaint, like any other building on the block. But beyond the front door lay a myriad of worries and fears. Would John enter only to find his stuff packed and ready for him to leave? Would Roger be there with fury on his face and ire in his eyes? Or worse, would he be pitying, standing halfway across the living room floor as he let John down gently, almost as though he were afraid that John would fly across to him and force himself upon him. 

John hesitated on the sidewalk, terrified to go inside. 

“Ten,” he whispered. “Nine. Eight. Seven.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. “Six. Five Four.” He started to walk towards the door. “Three. Two.” He paused, his hand outstretched, poised to open the door. He froze.

It took all his will power to close his frozen fingers around the knob, turn it, and step inside. 

“One.” 

The first thing he noticed was that his things were not, as he had imagined, in the front hall. The lights were off— save for the lone reading lamp in the living room. 

“John!” 

Roger leapt to his feet, his eyes wide and frantic as he looked over John as though categorizing the whole of him, as though he would never see him again. John fidgetted under his gaze, looking askance, unable to meet his eyes. 

“I’m going to bed,” John said quickly, his voice rough from the chill outside and the lump in his throat. 

“Fuck, John,” Roger breathed, stepping forward. “I—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” John interrupted, turning to leave. 

“Wait, please,” Roger begged. “Please, I won’t, I won’t mention it, okay? I just— fuck, John. I, uh—” 

“It’s fine,” John cut him off. “We don’t have to talk about it.” 

“No, we do! We do, because I’m _sorry_ ,” Roger cried. That stopped John in his tracks, still turned away. “I’m sorry John, really, I am. I never— had I known, I wouldn’t have—” 

_Wouldn’t have let you move in. Wouldn’t have gotten so close to you. Wouldn’t have spent so much time with a cocksucker. Wouldn’t have—_

“I would never have invaded your privacy like that,” Roger finished. Like a record skid, John found himself blinking in shock, unable to process Roger’s words. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have! I would have stayed away, okay? I can’t— I can’t imagine how that felt. I didn’t follow you, alright? And I didn’t try to— what I’m saying is that I wasn’t there to...to catch you. Honestly. I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable. It was an honest accident, and it won’t happen again.” 

John had never even considered that Roger had followed him, or that Roger had gone there with malicious intent. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, and John felt ashamed that he had even been worried that Roger would hate him, would be homophobic. Roger’s best mate in the world was Freddie, he’d said so himself. _But you’re not Freddie_ , a little voice in John’s head whispered. 

“And I want you to know that I won’t tell anyone,” Roger continued. “Your secret, it’s safe with me. I promise.” 

“Thank you,” John grunted, miraculously finding his voice. “I uh, I appreciate that.” 

They stood there, facing each other across the oceans and ravines and craters between them, unable and unwilling to say anymore. John was almost taken aback by the blatant earnestness on Roger’s face, the anxiety that proved to John that just as he was worried that Roger would attack him, Roger was worried that John would do the same. 

Awkwardly, and with much hesitation, John carefully edged his way closer to Roger, watching for any sign that Roger would lash out. When Roger did nothing more than hold himself still, John reached out and awkwardly hugged him. Roger hugged back, squeezing John as though he were afraid that he would never get to again. 

“Thanks,” John said uncomfortably. “It uh, it means a lot to me.” 

“”Of course, John,” Roger said softly into his shoulder, having collapsed into the hug as he always did. “I—” he cut himself off and pulled back, his hands clasped on John’s arms in an almost mirror of the way the man from earlier in the night had held onto him as he kissed him. “Of course,” he repeated lamely, ducking his head and stepping back.

John stood still as Roger stayed with his head tilted to the ground and fought the urge to fidget.

Eventually, after what felt like hours but what was more likely only seconds, Roger rolled back his shoulders and gave him one of the smiles that never failed — no matter the situation — to make John feel as if everything was going to be okay. “What are we doing standing around the living room at arse o’clock, huh? Let’s get to bed.”

The change in tone was jarring, but it had a huff of laughter escaping him nonetheless as he traipsed after Roger down the hallway, forgoing the bathroom for the sweet siren call of his bed even though he knew he’d regret the decision when he awoke to a mouth that tasted as awful as he was sure to feel.

It wasn’t until John was just on the verge of sleep did the thought cross his mind: why had Roger been there? Of all the bars in all of London, why was Roger in a gay bar? As far as John was aware, Roger was as straight as they came. So why was Roger there? 

John struggled to sleep.

*

“Oh, hi, John!” 

John turned, nearly bumping into Dominique, who had slid into line behind him, much to the displeasure of the other patrons behind them, equally desperate for caffeine. She looked gorgeous— all it took for her to be forgiven for jumping the queue was a brilliant smile. 

“Dom, hey,” John said, bussing her offered cheek gently. “Y’alright?” 

She unwound her scarf from around her neck, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she shrugged, “Yes, yes, just busy prepping for the holidays.” 

John nodded. “I understand. I’ve still got to pick up presents for everyone, and God help me but I am floundering.” 

The line moved, bringing them that much closer to the register. 

“If you’d like,” Dom offered casually. “I can come help? That is, if you’re heading out shopping after this. I’m free until dinner time.” 

John couldn’t help the relief that washed over him. “Would you? Christ, Dom, you’d really be saving my arse. I haven’t got a bloody clue what to get my mum or sister, let alone Freddie!” 

“I’d be honored,” she laughed, her eyes twinkling. 

“You’re the greatest,” John sighed. “Let me get your coffee on me, as a thank you.” 

“Honestly, it’s not a problem.” She swatted as his shoulder with her hand teasingly. But John had been raised to be a gentleman, and therefore insisted, forking over a banknote before she could even reach her wallet. 

“Trust me,” John said seriously. “You’re going to need all the caffeine you can get before we even start.”

*

They collapsed through the front door of his and Roger’s shared flat three hours later, arms bursting with overflowing bags and feet aching from running all over London. True to her word, Dominique had been absolutely irreplaceable, helping John find the perfect gift for everyone on his list. She’d been instrumental in talking him out of buying his mum what he’d thought was a lovely cashmere sweater and into an elegant string of pearls that he could already envision her pulling out from the wrapping on Christmas Day, her eyes filling with tears. Furthermore, she was the one to let him know that Roger had already shelled out for a rather gaudy but entirely unique Japanese screen for Freddie, thus allowing him to buy a vase to match. 

“Honestly, Dom, I owe you one,” John sighed, rustling down the hallway to shove the bags into his room. 

“Consider it part of my own Christmas gift to you,” she giggled as she helped him pile everything onto the floor. 

“Done. Now, can I get you anything? Tea? Wine? Whisky?” 

“I’ll take some tea,” she smirked. “Plus a shot of whisky.” 

“Brilliant! I’ll make two.” As he busied himself in the kitchen, setting the kettle to boil and fetching down a bottle of Glenfiddich he’d received as a gift on their previous tour, he shouted over his shoulder for her to make herself comfortable in the living room. 

It was nice to relax after the hustle and bustle of Christmas shopping. John wouldn’t say that he was particularly passive, but the thought and hassle of fighting people off from the items he wanted was stressful and frankly, too much for him to handle at times. He wished he was as dramatic as Freddie—if he had someone who would do all the shopping for him the way Freddie had Paul, John would find the holiday season much more relaxing. 

Rubbing at the back of his neck, he glanced out the window into the back garden. In no time, there’d be snow on the ground, a perfect White Christmas. John was spending a week in Leicester before he’d return to their flat. It was a bit long, but it was more than enough, especially considering Roger would be in France with Dom and her family, Brian would be spending the day with a pregnant Chrissie, and Freddie had already booked his vacation to the South of France. Plus, he hadn’t seen his mum in far too long, let alone Julie. It was long overdue, and he was actually looking forward to it. 

The whistle of the kettle pulled him out of his thoughts, and he made quick work of steeping the tea and adding a generous shot of whisky. 

“Now, I take zero responsibility over anything that occurs after drinking this,” John warned as he carefully handed the mug over to Dominique. 

“Bloody perfect,” she grinned, pressing the mug close to breathe in the steam. “Corr, John, you weren’t kidding!” 

“Cheers,” John toasted, knocking his mug against hers. They took a generous swig each, both hissing at the burn. 

“Warms you right up,” Dominique laughed. She leaned back against the cushion, closing her eyes. “This is _exactly_ what I’ve needed.” 

“Things that bad?” 

“Ugh, you have no idea. It’s just all the moving parts, you know? I’ve got to get everything organized for France, but I’m still in charge of Richard’s schedule, and don’t even get me started on everything I have to look into for the move—” 

John arched his eyebrow, taking a long drag of tea. “You’re moving? To where?” 

Dominique flushed, looking away. “Oh, no, I’m just— I’m merely looking into it. There’s uh, nothing planned, just yet, I just— well. I’m looking.” 

“If you need assistance in anything, let me know! Don’t judge us by this flat,” he laughed, gesturing to the living room. It was the same flat he and Roger originally moved into just two years prior, still too damp in the corners and too small, but homey and cozy in a way that allowed you to look past all the flaws. “But I’m sure Freddie still has the name of the realtor he used, or at least Mary, or Chrissie.” 

“That’s awfully kind of you,” Dominique said. There was something in her tone that was off; something changed between them. The lightness of the afternoon failed, growing cold. “Has— has Roger mentioned it?” 

“Mentioned what?” 

“That— that I’m looking to move.” 

John scrunched his nose, thinking back on their previous conversations. “Oh, no, he hasn’t. Though, to be fair, he might have? And it just didn’t register. I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” she laughed hollowly. “I— Christ.” 

John watched, concerned, as she took another gulp of her tea. Shifting on the couch, she turned to face him, schooling her expression into something he might imagine her wearing to face a firing squad. 

“I’m going to ask you something, and I’d like you to be completely honest,” she pressed. 

“O...kay?” 

“And I fully understand if you’d rather not,” Dom continued. “But it would mean a lot to me.” 

“I’ll do my best.”

“Do you think Roger’s committed to me?” 

It was the absolute last thing he’d ever expected to come from her, and it showed, clear as day on his face, as he froze. Roger? Committed? 

John had only seen Roger in one fully committed relationship before Dominique, back when he’d first joined the band. Back then, Roger had been rather like a puppy dog, fresh faced and eager to please his girlfriend. It slowly tapered off, however, when he grew more dedicated to a band that, at the time, no one except them ever thought would go anywhere. But there was something to be said about the way that Roger looked and behaved around Dominique. He loved her, it was evident in all that he did and all that he said. He spent as many hours as possible with her, phoned home to her every night on tour, spent countless hours planning the perfect dates for her. In fact, John had never actually seen Roger that committed to anyone, full stop. 

The last time he had been so focused on keeping someone’s attention or even affection was arguably when he was desperately trying to keep John’s head above water post-Veronica. 

He realized that he’d been quiet for too long, and hastened to assure her. 

“Where is this coming from?” he asked, settling down his mug. “Because Dom, honestly, I don’t know where it might be.” 

She tipped her head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. John, sensing that the mug might be doomed for a tumble over the cushions, carefully took it from her hands and placed it down next to his. 

“I just—I feel like there’s something missing. Like, we’re not on the same page.” She reached up and pressed her heels into her eyes. “I get that this is a big step. He’s coming home to meet my family—for _Christmas_ —but I just can’t help but feel like I’m missing something. Something big.” 

“He could just, um, be nervous?” John offered. The very last thing he ever wanted to do was comfort the girlfriend of the love of his life, but life had dealt him the cards and he was much too far into his bluff to fold now. “If it makes you feel better, he hasn’t said anything.” 

“I mean, that does make me feel better,” Dom confessed. “I worry. I worry that we’re moving too fast, or that something will go wrong.” 

Dread sunk hot and deep in the pit of John’s stomach. He’d heard this before, or something like it once. Right before his life as he knew it ended. 

“Are you planning on breaking up with Roger?” John asked, his voice quiet. Dom turned to face him so fast her neck cracked. 

“No! No, I’m not!” 

“Because that’s what it sounds like—” 

“I’m _not!_ But I think— I think he might be planning on breaking up with me. Or growing tired of me,” she half sobbed, her face screwed up tight. 

John frowned, but let her continue. 

“I just feel like there’s something missing, and I’m not getting any younger. I don’t want to look back on our relationship and realize that I was missing something and that I should have left before it was too late.” 

Sick crawled up his throat. It was almost just like Veronica. _I would always wonder, what would my life be like? If this hadn’t happened._

“Did Roger ever tell you about Veronica?” John asked. Dom frowned, confused. 

“Your...your ex? Only that when you, um, broke up, it was really awful. Really tough on you. He never said anything specific, though.” 

That was Roger. No matter what he always had John’s back, and his secrets. 

“Ronnie dumped me for a lot of different reasons, but the main one was that she couldn’t handle being in a relationship with someone who was never really there. She couldn’t handle the thought that she would always be second best to a band, or to a lifestyle. That I would never be home for dinner, or to help tuck the children into bed. And so she did me a favor and showed mercy and she ended the relationship before we went any further. And maybe, yes, we’d be able to work things out if we’d stayed together, or maybe we would have ended things a lot worse. But when I look back on it, on our relationship and the two years we spent happy in love, I always wonder. Were we really?” 

John took a deep breath and steadied himself with another swig of tea as he steadfastly refused to look at Dominique. 

“I wonder, how long did she know that she didn’t want to spend her life with me? How long had all this— the band, the relationship, me— how long had it been bothering her? And how much of it was a lie?” He shook his head. “ _That_ is what hurts me the most. The not knowing. The realization that the whole time I thought everything was perfect, and inside, she was doubting everything. 

“John—” 

“Don’t do that to Roger,” John demanded, strongly enough that Dominique sat up straight as if she were about to be sent for a caning at school. “Don’t break his heart like that because you would _crush_ him. If you have _any_ doubt, end it. End it before you let it eat you up inside and hurt him more in the long run.” 

Dominique fell silent. While he felt it needed to be said, for a moment he wondered if he’d been too honest. While he did, in fact, love Roger, he didn’t want to facilitate his breakup, or push his girlfriend into dumping him. The very last thing he’d ever want is to cause him any pain; he’d fall upon his own sword if it would keep him happy. 

“I never want to break his heart,” Dominique said said quietly. “I _love_ him.” 

John took a deep breath. “I know, Dom, I do. And he loves you, scout’s honor.” 

She sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She reached for her mug again, chuckling wetly, “Christ, John, what’s a girl got to do around here to get another shot of whisky?” 

John rolled his eyes teasingly as he stood to do as she asked. “Be glad you’re asking me and no one else. You’d be terrified to hear their answers.”

Roger came home an hour to find the two of them drunk and giggling on the couch, pretending they actually knew the lyrics to an opera record Freddie had left behind when he’d moved out and Roger hadn’t had the heart to let go of. 

“My god,” Roger shouted over the din. “This is, quite frankly, too embarrassing. Did you both drink the whole bottle?” 

Dominique warbled something that might have been Wagner, but sounded more like a cat dying. John snorted, collapsing back against the cushion and pushing his fingers into his mouth to stop himself from falling to pieces.

*

It had been a long night, made even longer by the booze and lackluster company of John’s favorite dive bar. Oh, there had been more than enough men to turn his head —and definitely enough booze, if the sick sort of feeling that sat within his gut was anything to go by — but it wasn’t a night to write home about. John had been gearing up to go home with a bloke sporting an impressive mustache and an even more impressive cock when there had been the scare of a raid. The bloke, spooked, had left John high and dry in the back alley behind the club, forcing him to walk the whole length home, stumbling and spoiled and frustrated. 

At half-past two in the morning, there was little chance of a taxi and so, with hands tucked deep in his pockets and collar turned up against the bitter January wind, he picked his way back towards the apartment. 

The lights were off when he finally made it home. The lights were off and the blinds snapped closed to fight off the wind, same as he’d left it. An empty home with no one there but himself. When he'd pictured the end of his night—fluffing up his roots in the bathroom and thinking up all the fun he was going to have with the illicit, sordid thrill of knowing that no one but him and his chosen partner would be any the wiser come morning—it had certainly promised to finish on a higher note than it had; a brief interlude in the loos that had left him still hard and wanting, the imprint of a stranger's teeth stinging against his neck in the best possible way but still short of what it was exactly that he'd ventured into the night for. He’d wanted to take the man home, wanted to get fucked in the bed he’d spent so many nights dreaming of Roger in; wanted to wake up in the morning sated and content and still grasping onto the memory of a body pressed against his. 

Instead, he was alone. 

Naturally.

Sloshing his way up the steps, he fumbled in his pocket for his keys for far too long before finally managing to get the key in the lock. Without Roger there to lecture him about the importance of hanging his coat on the rack, he chucked it onto the breakfront and kicked his shoes off without looking where they went. Stretching, he made his way into the kitchen, set on fetching a glass of water before bed.

He flicked on the light and blinked. Roger was slumped in a kitchen chair, home three days early and miserably tearstained in front of two empty bottles of wine. 

"Roger?" he ventured, unsteady on his feet and labouring to see clearly under the flickering light he'd been meaning, and forgetting, to change for a little over a week now. He'd promised to have it done by the time Roger got back, had written it on the calendar in bright red ink under his watchful gaze as Dominique played at impatience by the front door.

At the table, Roger's breath hitched. 

Trepidation turned to dread turned to terror in the span of a split second as his boozy brain kickstarted into gear.

“What happened,” he gasped, his ears ringing with a panic he didn’t know possible. “What’s wrong?” And then, like a prayer; “ _Roger._ ” 

Roger, Roger was never one to cry, let alone weep. The last time he'd seen him cry had been when—when his mother had called to say she was getting remarried back in '74 when they'd been barely friends, little more than bandmates. Dread built thick in the well of John’s throat as his ears roared with fear. Whatever it was, it was bad.

Panic wormed thick within his brain: Freddie’d been in an accident; Dom’s birth control failed and she was pregnant, she was leaving him; Roger had to quit Queen; Roger had found out. Each scenario worse than the last flew through John’s mind like a bat out of hell, screeching through the permeating silence on the kitchen and echoing in his head over and over and over.

Roger hiccoughed again. Despite all his misery, he was still the loveliest sight John had ever seen. “Dom and me,” Roger managed, his voice cracking. “We’ve decided...we’re no longer together.” 

John felt dizzy. “Wha—what? You’ve broken up?” 

At his words, Roger’s face twisted up into a sob as he nodded, his chest heaving with the effort to hold back his tears. “Uh-huh,” Roger stuttered. 

“Shit,” John breathed as his hands hovered over Roger, unsure of what he needed. Christ, if Roger asked for his beating heart he’d rip it out of his own chest and present it to him without a second thought, if only Roger would ask. If he asked, John would run, swim, drive, _fly_ to France to grab Dominique by the shoulders and shake her until she took it all back, took Roger back, undid whatever wrong she had caused. He would burn the world, burn Queen, ruin it all and them all, if it would make Roger smile again. “Roger, Roger—”

It was brutal, the sight of Roger sitting at the table, looking like a child who’d lost his mother, unsure of what to do or what to say. Tear stained and mused and tragically sad, not John’s Roger. Something different; painted with the kind of despair John had hoped, however naively, him incapable. 

“What can I do?” John asked as his voice broke. “How can I help?” 

Roger shook his head, dropping his chin to his chest; “You can’t.” 

“ _Roger_.” 

“I just—” Roger’s chest shuddered on a breath. “I just need to stop.” 

“Stop? Stop what?” 

“Stop—stop thinking! Stop thinking about it, and about her and about—” He cut himself off with a half sob, reaching up to press the heel of one hand into his eye, sniffling around tears that he refused to let fall. “I just need to _stop_.” 

“Okay,” John whispered. He readied himself, closed his eyes, breathed. Reaching for Roger’s hands, he moved himself from his position at his feet. “Okay, Roger, okay.” 

“Please,” whispered Roger. The acoustics of their kitchen, so used to the joyful and hazy Sunday morning’s ringing out with the commotion of the latest Top 40 hits hollered between the two of them as tea steeped and pancakes browned, turned unwittingly traitorous — John knew the echo of Roger’s broken plea would reverberate within him long beyond this night.

“I’ve got you, Roger,” John murmured, running his hand through Roger’s sweat-damp hair. How to make it stop, John didn’t know. When he’d found himself in this mess—when Roger had helped him through the worst of the break up—John hadn’t known what to do then, either. Roger had been the one with all the answers. 

There was no way John could imitate all that Roger had done, not now, not like this. But what he could do, what he could offer, was some semblance of comfort, far from any reminder of Dominique. For the few hours remaining within the night, John could make sure that she would be as far from Roger’s mind as possible. Roger wouldn’t have to enter his room, with the ghost of Dominique and their relationship in every corner. Roger could have his room. 

Gently, carefully, tenderly, he led Roger from the kitchen table towards his own room, easing open the door with his hip. In the darkness, it was easy to look past the mess of clothes that John had left on the floor when attempting to decide what to wear and the empty mug on his bedside table. Roger followed him into the room like a shadow of himself, still sniffling quietly, occasionally letting go of John’s hand to swipe at his cheeks with the back of one hand. 

“In you go,” John murmured, turning down the duvet of his bed and gently lowering Roger onto the mattress. “C’mon, there you go.” 

It was almost tragic watching Roger pliant and quiet, malleable to John’s whim and desperate to be told what to do. He seemed to shrink into himself as he crawled under the covers, fumbling to remove his socks before he allowed John to pull the covers up and over him. 

“I’ll be right back,” John assured him before he rushed to the kitchen, bumping off the walls as he slid on the hardwood and lost his footing. Grabbing two glasses he filled them up with water from the tap before hurrying back to his room, ignoring the way some water sloshed over the sides to dampen the rug. 

Roger looked tiny under the thick down feather quilt John had splurged on last Christmas, pale against the navy blue of his sheets. It was unnatural, and eerie. Roger looked at him. 

“I’ve brought you water,” John said stupidly, holding up the glass as though Roger couldn’t see it in his hand. “One for now, one for the morning.” 

“Thanks.” 

The resemblance between Roger and a small child was almost uncanny; the glass looked comically large between his hands as he used both to carefully sip the water, drinking large gulps until it was almost all gone. When there was nothing more than a quarter left, Roger stopped, wiping the back of his mouth with one hand while he awkwardly handed it back to John. 

“‘Course,” shrugged John, making his way over to the bed and setting the glasses down on the bedside. “I’ll just be in the living room, alright? Give us a shout if you need me.”

“Wait,” Roger frowned. “Where are you going to sleep?” 

John had already eyeballed the couch, figuring that he could swipe a spare blanket from the closet, and explained as much. Roger’s frown deepened as he pushed back the covers, making to stand. John rushed to his side, pushing him gently back against the pillows. 

“I can sleep in my room,” Roger insisted, grabbing at John’s wrist. “I don’t want to kick you out of your room—”

“You’re not,” John argued. “I’ll be fine—”

“No,” Roger pushed. “Just—just stay. Stay here. With me. Please.” 

There wasn’t a chance in hell that John would ever deny Roger anything, not when he was begging him with bloodshot eyes and salty cheeks. The battle was over before it had even begun, and John found himself methodically stripping down to his briefs, plucking his worn flannel bottoms off the floor and a threadbare shirt from his drawer. Ignoring the way Roger shivered as he pulled back the duvet, exposing him to the cold air, John slid under the blankets, keeping himself stiff on his own side as he tried desperately to avoid touching Roger. 

It was made moot when Roger—half asleep and still desperate for comfort—rolled over and curled up into his side, pressing the whole length of his body against John’s side, tucking his face into the space between John’s shoulder and neck. 

If John were a better person, he knew, he’d push Roger away. If he were stronger, he’d carefully untangle their limbs and sleep on the couch, far away from the temptation of Roger’s sleep addled limbs and soft murmurings. But he wasn’t, and so he didn’t. And he hated himself for it, because he knew that he wasn’t accepting the soft, sleepy warmth of Roger for Roger’s sake. He knew that for every modicum of comfort Roger drew from their embrace — huddled together as they were under the bedding, a world away from bitter January winds and women who broke your heart as they left you behind — he was stealing a thousand breaths to store away at the bottom of his lungs and to draw upon when just the mere scent of Roger passing him by would be enough to keep him standing another day. 

When he awoke in the morning, it was to Roger’s foot colliding with the side of his knee, jolting him awake to blink heavily in the mid-morning light. John allowed himself five delicious minutes of enjoying the feel of Roger in his arms—minus the restlessness of his legs and his nonsensical mutterings—before he picked himself free, teetering on sleep heavy limbs into the kitchen, desperate for a cup of coffee to wake his brain up. Breathing in the steam, he settled himself at the table and forced himself to work on the crossword puzzle from yesterday’s paper, willing himself to think of anything but Roger still laying heartbroken in his bed. 

He didn’t have to wait long. He was mulling over twenty-seven down—Eastern Hemisphere island visited by Magellan, 1521—when he heard his bedroom door creak open, followed by the soft padding of Roger making his way to the kitchen. 

“S’that coffee?” he grumbled as he knuckled sleep out of his eye. John pushed the second teacup towards him, already doctored the way Roger liked. “Thanks.” 

John fumbled with his words, trying desperately to think of what to say, how to comfort Roger, how to make it right. Words were never his strong suit, and certainly not the kinds of words needed to help a friend in their time of need. Once, Julie had come to him despondent over a fight she’d had with her school friends, and the best advice John could come up with was for Julie to find new friends. That had gone over like a balloon full of lead. 

When Veronica had dumped him and broken his heart, Roger had known exactly what to say and exactly what John needed. There hadn’t been a single moment wherein John had had to think for himself beyond surviving; everything was handled by Roger. John couldn’t do the same for him, he didn’t even know where to begin. 

“Leyte,” Roger said abruptly, startling John out of his haze. 

“Beg your pardon?” 

“Twenty-seven down,” Roger nodded, squinting at the paper. “The answer’s Leyte.” 

Infuriatingly enough, it was. Mumbling his thanks, John scribbled the answer in. “I was thinking,” he said carefully, making sure not to look at Roger. “We should go to the movies tonight. Bring a bottle of vodka, have a night out.” 

Roger settled his tea cup in the saucer with a clatter. “I’d rather stay in,” he shrugged. 

“Oh, well, we can watch the nine o’clock film—”

“M’actually feeling tired.” Roger stood up abruptly. “I want to go back to bed.” 

John scrambled to his feet as well. “Oh, yeah, of course—”

He watched as Roger rushed back down the hall, throwing himself through the doorway of John’s room, slamming the door shut behind him. With a sigh, John collapsed back into his seat, sinking his head into his hands. 

Roger spent the rest of the day in John’s bedroom tucked under the duvet and refusing to speak. John dutifully brought him a sandwich at lunch, trying his best to tempt him into a conversation or to just come out of the home he’d made for himself under the covers, but it was to no avail. Roger ignored everything. 

After the midday cup of tea had been left abandoned, untouched and cold on the bedside table, John realized that there was nothing he could do to help except let Roger do whatever it was that he needed to do. Even if that was hibernation. Giving Roger the space he needed was more important than his pride John reasoned as he fetched the spare duvet from the hall closet. It was arguably the worst blanket in their flat, usually reserved for when Brian spent the night or when one of them was ill and they didn’t want to risk ruining their fancier duvets, but it was still warm, and better than using Roger’s. John would rather cut off his right hand than walk into Roger’s room, not when it still held the ghost of Dominique. That was a task for the future. 

Settling down onto the couch, John punched the lumpy spare pillow into something more comfortable before tucking himself up under the duvet. It was brighter in the living room than in his own bedroom; the light of the streetlamp cast orange squares across the floor, giving the flat an eerie look. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to sleep, ignoring the cramped position of the couch and the itch of the wool against his neck. 

“John.” 

He startled awake, terrified to find Roger’s face pressed nearly against his, his eyes bright in the din of the living room. Glancing around, John realized it was still night. 

“Wassa matter?” he mumbled, pushing himself up. “What’s wrong?” 

“What are you doing on the couch?” Roger hissed, his face scrunched up in displeasure. 

“M’sleeping,” John yawned, flopping back onto the couch. He’d half closed his eyes, ready to slip back asleep when he sat back up again. “Are you alright?” 

“Come to bed,” Roger demanded, ignoring John. “C’mon.” 

John couldn’t answer; Roger grabbed his hand and tugged him off the couch and down to his room. Ignoring any and all protests, Roger herded John towards the bed, pulling back the covers and forcing him under. Maybe it was the fact that he was still half asleep on his feet, but John let himself be tucked in, and couldn’t even protest if he’d wanted to when Roger slid under the covers next to him. Like the night before, Roger curled up against John, tucking himself into his side like a missing puzzle piece. 

“Sleep,” Roger murmured, wrapping an arm around his chest and pulling him in tighter. John was powerless but to obey. 

This time, when he awoke, Roger was gone. Stumbling out of bed, he ran a hand through his hair as he skid into the living room, almost taking Roger out in his haste. Roger fell back with a little ‘ _oof_ ’, grabbing at John’s shoulder to steady himself. 

“Where’s the fire?” he asked with a little half smile. 

“Roger,” John said stupidly. “You’re—you’re awake.” 

“Cheers,” Roger smiled. “I’ve made coffee.” 

John let himself get steered into the kitchen and forced into a chair, a cup of coffee following. It was perfect, not too sweet, not too bitter, and he sipped at it gratefully. Across the table, Roger scrutinized him carefully. 

“How’s the coffee?” 

John nodded, “It’s perfect. Perfect sugar to milk ratio.” 

Roger frowned for a half second before he nodded to himself. John had the distinct feeling he’d passed some sort of test he didn’t even know he was taking. 

“I’ve invited Freddie over,” Roger announced. “He’ll be here—well, he’ll get here when he gets here. You know how Freddie is.” 

Jealousy flared up in the pit of John’s stomach; he hid it with another sip of coffee. “Great,” he said, forcing his tone to stay light. “Glad he can come.” 

“I’ve got some stuff I need to talk to him about,” Roger continued, his expression unreadable. John fought back his scowl. What was it that Freddie could give him that John couldn’t? 

As soon as the thought entered his mind, it vanished. Freddie and Roger had a bond John would never be able to match. It was to be expected that Freddie would come; that Roger would ask for him. John shouldn’t have been surprised. 

“Crossword?” Roger asked, thrusting the paper and a pencil in John’s face. “I figured we could both try our hands at it, fill in where the other can’t.” 

John bit his lip as he smiled, happy to do this little bit for Roger, “Sounds great.” 

They sat together, heads bent close enough to touch, passing the pencil back and forth for the better part of the morning until Freddie rang the bell, forcing Roger from his seat. Together, the two of them stood in the doorway whispering heatedly before Roger, without a second look towards John, all but dragged Freddie down the hallway, and slammed the door shut behind them. 

It took all his willpower not to creep down the hall and press his ear to the door. John was desperate to know what was going on, to know what they were saying. Was Roger telling Freddie how they broke up, or why? What was he saying that John couldn’t know? 

He scowled into his mug, viciously trying to force his jealousy down. It wasn’t about him, he reminded himself. It was about Roger and what Roger needed. If Roger needed Freddie, then John wouldn’t stand in the way. No matter how much it bothered him. 

For two hours, John did his best to ignore the urge to break down the door and demand Roger’s attention. He busied himself with the dishes, then the paper, and then he went back to the kitchen to clean a second time, just in case he’d missed something. When the kitchen was spotless, he forced himself into the living room to watch whatever daytime soaps were on. The picture looked fuzzy; John frowned. 

Getting to his feet, he made to fiddle with the antenna, shifting it this way and the other in an attempt to get a clearer image. It took him a bit, but he managed. Smirking to himself, he collapsed back onto the couch. However, five minutes later, the screen looked fuzzy again. 

“Fucking piece of shit,” John grumbled, once more getting to his feet to play with it. “Never able to keep a decent picture, why the fuck do we even keep it…” 

He smacked the top of the box, watching as the screen cleared for a bit before returning to the previous state. 

That was how Roger and Freddie found him when they finally emerged from Roger’s room, on his hands and knees before the telly, cursing under his breath as he bullied the screen into compliance. 

“Erm,” Roger said, his voice raspy and vaguely strangled. “John.” 

John turned so fast he whacked his head on the edge of the box. “Mother _fucker!_ ” 

In a flash, Roger was by his side, grabbing his face with both hands, turning it so he could get a better look at the bump. John held his breath and Roger traced the edge of his bruise with calloused fingers, his hands inexplicably gently. 

“Sh,” Roger murmured. John could feel his breath on his cheek, and he bit his lip to hold back his shiver. “Are you okay?” 

“M’fine,” John said, his eyes fluttering closed as Roger brushed back a bit of hair to get a closer look. 

“Looked like it hurt.” 

John shrugged. “Just a bump.” 

They stayed together like that for another breath; Roger cradling his head and John being held. He never wanted it to end. 

Freddie cleared his throat. 

Roger pulled back, letting go of John so fast that he fell forward in his haste to follow. 

“John,” Freddie said pointedly. “Roger has something to say.” 

Roger shot Freddie a dark glare before turning back to John, his face crumpled with nerves. 

“Roger?” 

“I, um, I’ve talked it over with Freddie,” Roger said quickly, looking briefly at John before glancing back down at his hands where he’d tangled them in the hem of his shirt. “And I’m gonna go stay with him for a little bit.” 

John felt like he’d been punched in the chest. “What?” 

“Yeah, I just, um, I can’t— I can’t stay here? Not right now when I’m still, uh, still figuring things out. So I’m...I’m gonna go stay with Freddie. Just for a week! And then I’ll come back,” Roger insisted. John knew that everything he was feeling was written across his face, and he struggled to force it back into something neutral. 

“Okay, um, are you—” 

“I’ll take excellent care of him,” Freddie interrupted, coming forward to wrap an arm possessively around Roger’s shoulders. “I’ll have him back safe and sound in seven days! Good as new.” 

Roger jabbed his elbow into Freddie’s ribs, flushing. “It will just be a week,” Roger insisted. “One week.” 

John couldn’t help the dread bubbling up in his chest. “Listen, Rog—”

“I’ll call you, okay?” Roger looked at him imploringly, his eyes wide. “But this will be good for me. Okay?” 

“Rog—” 

“C’mon, Rog,” Freddie pushed as he grabbed the duffle Roger had set at his feet. “We’ve got to get home in time for dinner, I think we’re having scallops.” 

John stepped forward, trying desperately to wrap his head around what was happening. Roger was leaving, Roger was staying with Freddie, Roger didn’t need him— 

John stumbled backwards as Roger threw himself at him, wrapping him up tightly in a hug. John didn’t know what to do other than hug him back just as tightly, trying to memorize the feel of Roger in his arms, the scent of his cologne, the way he squeezed just a tad tighter right before he stepped away. 

“Thanks for everything, Deaks,” Roger grinned quick as a flash before he let Freddie lead him to the front door and down the steps. There was nothing John could do but watch him go.

*

The first night Roger was gone was spent laying in bed, his head smushed into the pillow that Roger had used. John was strong enough to admit that he was the sort of pathetic husk that would miss his unrequited love so much that he would pass the night sniffing his pillow. It was pathetic and creepy and yet he couldn’t stop. 

He didn’t know why he felt so shitty. Sure, it was terrible that he had been left behind while Roger went with Freddie— his _real_ best friend— to mourn the loss of his girlfriend. And yes, maybe it was even more pathetic that John was jealous of the fact that Freddie was probably right now pouring a too drunk Roger into a taxi cab. And yes, it hurt that John clearly wasn’t enough for Roger, or that he wasn’t dependable in his time of need. But what hurt the most was that John knew he was being incredibly unreasonable. 

Roger was in pain. The woman he had loved so ardently had dumped him out of the blue, and _John was making it all about himself_. John was hurt and wounded that Roger, who was dealing with his own heartbreak, hadn’t turned to him to make it better. 

Friendships weren’t equal; someone always cared more about the other, relied more than the other, needed the other more. Roger might be John’s best friend, but that didn’t mean that John wass Roger’s best friend. The knowledge of that made John’s stomach turn. Roger didn’t mean to exclude— and how pathetic was that, whining about being excluded from a friend’s break up spiral. John had officially taken the title of Worst Friend Ever by merely thinking that he deserved to be there for Roger simply because Roger had been there for him when Veronica had dumped him.

 _Veronica._

“Shit,” John groaned, rolling onto his back away from the pillow and pressing his hands onto his face. _Veronica._

Not even one week before Dominique had broken things off with Roger, John had sat her down and lectured her about dumping Roger. He had planted the seed into her brain and told her to end things if she even so much as hinted at the thought of not being with Roger. John had all but pushed her towards that conclusion. 

No _wonder_ Roger didn’t want to stay with John; John had all but broken them up for her. 

“Fuck,” moaned John. 

He had ruined the longest and arguably best relationship his best friend had ever been in and then was surprised to get left behind. John should be lucky if Roger ever came back.

*

John had spent most of his time either laying in bed staring at the ceiling, or sprawled out on the couch, once again staring at the ceiling. It was a miserable affair, all he could think about was the look of utter sadness in Dominique’s eyes as she begged him for information about Roger. The look of complete and utter defeat as he told her about Veronica, about his own failure to keep a family together in the wake of his dream. 

And now, now Roger was the one suffering for it. Roger was the one paying the price for him opening his mouth, for sticking his foot into his business when he never should have. He should have left it alone. Should have walked away. But he didn’t, and Roger— Roger was the one who had to face the music. Not John. 

John pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, pushing down until he see nothing but the kaleidoscope of colors that swirled before him. He couldn’t help but worry that maybe this _had_ been what he’d intended to do. Not consciously, but subconsciously? Had his fantasies grown so out of hand that he would purposefully sabotage the relationship of his greatest friend and love? It horrified him that he couldn’t say he hadn’t wished for this. Not the heartbreak, or at least not the visceral, real heartbreak that he’d been witness and testament to. But the ideal, stylistic kind of heartbreak that saw John — the John that only existed in his head who knew all the right things to say and do, who didn’t lose Roger to Dominique, to Freddie, and anyone and everyone that wasn’t _him_ — picking up the pieces of the man he loved, only for Roger to turn around a month later, not so long that the heartbreak could be considered debilitating but long enough that it had surely meant something, and declare his own love in return. Of course John would turn him away at first, he wouldn’t want to take advantage of his fragile emotional state, after all, and— 

He was getting distracted.

He didn’t think he’d done this on purpose; no matter how selfish his desires might be, he’d done his best to make sure they didn’t affect Roger. Regardless, he was who he was: a fixer. He would do anything for Roger. He would right his wrong, somehow. 

Ironically, the solution came to him when he was in the middle of stress cleaning the kitchen, on his hands and knees scrubbing the grout under their sink, which, from the look of it, hadn’t been cleaned since before Roger and Freddie had moved in. John had been contemplating venturing into Roger’s room for a deep clean— nothing made him feel better when ill or sad than climbing into a freshly made bed— when the thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. 

Roger would be returning to a home filled with memories of Dominique: her toiletries, clothing, and books were still mixed among their belongings, scattered little clues that said a woman once lived with them. John couldn’t fathom how terrible it would be to return to the apartment to find the ghost of Dominique lingering amongst the shoe rack or tucked away under the bathroom sink. Had it been Veronica, he would have been devastated. 

His mind made up, he clambered to his feet, fetched a box from their closet and began systematically taking their flat apart, tossing anything that was Dominique’s in the box. A framed photo of the three of them skiing with Tim and his ex-girlfriend, Madeleine; one of her winter coats from the coat closet; her toothbrush, a few random pieces of make-up, and her bottle of perfume; a set of sheets that John knew for a fact hadn’t been purchased by either of them; and, in Roger’s bedroom, and entire drawer of clothes that had been set aside for her in Roger’s wardrobe. All of it went into the box which was tossed in the direction of the front door after two hours of the worst scavenger hunt John had ever been a part of. 

Job done, he collapsed onto the couch, tipping his head back against the cushions. Closing his eyes as he took a deep breath he struggled to find something else to do for the rest of the day. Now that he’d cleaned the entire flat, and rid Roger of all Dominique’s things, he had nothing left to do. Maybe he could drive the box of things over to her house? While most of it wasn’t very important, a few things, such as the perfume and the photos, might be wanted. John would certainly want them back, if only for closure. 

_Closure._

Sitting back upright, John looked at the box in horror. _Roger would want closure!_ John had completely stripped the house of all of Dominique’s things, and in doing so had taken away the option for Roger to do it himself; he had taken the choice from him, just as he had with Dominique when he had urged her to break up with Roger. 

Scrambling to the box, he began ripping the things free, rushing around the flat in a panic as he struggled to remember where everything was to go. A tea mug obviously belonged in the kitchen, right? Or had she left it full of pens on Roger’s desk? And the coat, was it from the hall closet, or had it been hanging in Roger’s room? Not to mention the photographs. John felt as though his heart would burst from his chest as he frantically repositioned everything where he believed it ought to be. 

It took him another hour. 

When he was finally finished, he completely bypassed the couch in favor of his own bedroom, crawling under the covers and yanking the blankets over his head. Pressing his face into the pillow Roger had slept with, he counted down from ten until he fell asleep.

*

Roger was never coming back. 

John had figured it out on the morning of day four. Roger hadn’t called despite his promise. John wasn’t too upset, he figured that he would be kept easily distracted and busy in Freddie’s ornate mansion which was at all times filled to the brim with interesting characters — all introduced by Freddie, always, as ‘a dear friend’. Hell, John would do anything to be living in the lap of luxury there instead of moping about their gloomy, too small flat that had been rented long before they were actually seeing any of their royalty checks. Roger was probably soaking in Freddie’s jacuzzi tub right that very moment, having the time of his life while John was sat in their kitchen struggling with the crossword. It wasn’t as easy, or as fun, without Roger. 

John scowled at the paper and threw it across the table. No, Roger was probably spending his time trying to figure out how to let John know that he was permanently moving out, leaving him behind in favor of Freddie, whom he had previously lived with. He still occasionally bitched about being left behind when Freddie moved out in favor of living with Mary. 

It wasn’t a long stretch of the imagination to think of the two of them having a blast, reliving old times, and planning a future of them reunited as flatmates. 

John looked around their drab little kitchen, with its second hand appliances and furnishings; the rickety old table and chairs that had been donated from Roger’s aunt when he first moved in; the toaster John had found in the back of a charity shop and brought back to life with duct tape and a prayer, though it was only ever able to produce warm bread or charred, forcing them to always keep an eye on it; the colorful array of teacups and mugs collected from around the world. 

The apartment was shabby and dowdy and nothing that John would ever have imagined Roger— the living, breathing example of a perfect rockstar— living in. Of course he’d want to move in with Freddie. It was only logical, really. 

Furthermore, there was no reason for John to be so upset. This was the best option, really. Roger moving out freed John from having to make the decision to leave on his own. There was no point staying in their shithole of a flat if Roger wasn’t there. Nostalgia wasn’t enough to forgive a lack of warm water in the winter and a roof that leaked every other year. The sole reason John had never moved on was the fear that moving on meant losing Roger. Roger was, for lack of a better term, John’s home. There existed in Roger something that called to John on the most basic of levels, the most intrinsic of ways. If John could bundle himself up, bury himself inside of him, he would; he would slumber in his lungs and stand guard of his heart and maybe then he would be close enough to no longer yearn. John had traveled the world, and it had never felt foreign while Roger was stood next to him; John had lived in this apartment for near three years, and living in it alone had him stumbling about as if he had been struck blind. Where Roger was, John wanted to be. And, despite how large Freddie’s new home was, John didn’t think he’d want to take on two tenants. 

John couldn’t keep wallowing in his own sorrow; it was simply too awful to bear. Bouncing between self pity and self hatred—whining about how Roger wasn’t giving him enough attention while Roger was busy trying to glue himself back together in the wake of his greatest heartbreak? This, he knew, was why Roger would never love him. Roger would never love him. That’s why he went to Freddie’s, to get away from _him_ —was exhausting. Gathering his wits about him in a wave of desperation, John reached for the phone, wracking his brain as to think of who to call. 

Roger, obviously, was out, as was Freddie. Brian had been mentioning how he’d been going stir-crazy trapped in his home with a pregnant Chrissie and their respective families, but John had very little desire to deal with Chrissie’s wrath should Brian come home drunk. 

The trouble with being in a world renowned rock band that spent three quarters of the year on the road was that other friendships were hard to maintain and create. Before Queen had hit the charts, John had had a large friend group on which to rely; after, it had shrunk merely to the other three members and their staff. He couldn’t remember when his world had become so small, when Roger and Freddie and Brian became more important than any other friendship he’d ever had. 

With two out of three friends out of commission, and the other being tied to responsibilities— and, if John were completely honest, Chrissie frightened him. When Brian had come down with hepatitis, it was Chrissie who had led the figurative fire brigade into the hospital, ensuring that Brian would receive the best care possible. Once, he’d had the misfortune of walking into Brian’s room while Chrissie was mid-dressing down an attending who’d mistakenly brought Brian a non-vegetarian meal. Sometimes he still woke up in a cold sweat—John’s options for a drinking buddy where limited. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the landline and made to call the first person he could think of. 

Unfortunately, he realized mid-dialing that he didn’t actually know Ratty’s phone number. Despite having worked with them for close to five years, John had never actually had a need to call Ratty. Usually, if something was wrong, he would mention it to Ratty in person or he’d have ranted about it enough to Roger that he would in turn bitch to Crystal about it, who would make sure Ratty fixed it just so that Roger would leave him alone. It wasn’t a great system, but it worked. 

Once John had managed to dig Roger’s address book out from the junk drawer where they’d stashed it along with too many takeaway menus and a handful receipts that may or may not have been needed for their taxes — at least he knew now where Roger hid the evidence of all his not-quite tax deductible gifts, and why he was so adamant about being the one to call in for a Chinese every time — he flipped through the pages, heading straight for the ‘r’s. Weirdly enough, there was no one listed under the name ‘Ratty’. He frowned, before flipping through the pages again. 

No Ratty. 

John furrowed his brow. Usually Roger entered people in by their nicknames seeing as no one in the band actually knew anyone’s real name. Freddie, for example, would be hard pressed to tell anyone what Crystal’s real name was. John chewed his lip before groaning, dropping his head to his hands. Ratty hadn’t received his nickname until halfway through their first tour with him, following a spectacular strike out with a gorgeous groupie who’d been looking for, as she put it, someone worth sleeping with and not a rat faced little man who played fetch for the big boys. Ratty had taken it all in his stride, but was never able to shake the moniker. 

Roger must have put his name in under his real name. John flicked to the beginning, and paused. Fuck. What was Ratty’s real name? 

Five years! Five years, Ratty had worked for John, been there through tours and recordings, drank with them, toured with them and, for the life of him, John had no idea what his real name was. Fuck. 

Dropping his head into his hands, John reached for the phone and made to dial the familiar number. 

“ _Hullo_.” 

“Crystal? Hey, it’s John,” John said awkwardly. “Erm, John Deacon.” 

“ _Yeah. I know who you are, John. What’s he done this time? Did he run away from Freddie’s?_ ” 

John pulled a face. Crystal knew that Roger was staying at Freddie’s? He shouldn’t have been surprised; Crystal made it his business to know everything and anything about Roger. Or rather, _Roger_ made it Crystal’s business. Crystal was one part drum tech, two parts Roger’s friend, and six parts Roger’s glorified babysitter. John half thought that Miami had hired him solely to keep Roger in line through sheer force of will, insults, and bribery. 

The other half thought that Crystal didn’t actually get paid and merely hung around for the entertainment. It really depended on how many broken bones or attempted arrests occurred on the given day.

“No, um, not that I know of. No, I was wondering—” John ran his hand through his hair, grimacing at the awkwardness of this entire fucking nightmare. On second thought, wallowing on the sofa with the pillow that did not even remotely smell of Roger’s shampoo anymore? Perhaps not as bad a way to spend the night as he’d originally thought. “Do you have Ratty’s number?” 

There was a slight pause on the other line before; “ _Ratty? Like, our Ratty? Your bass tech?_ ” 

“Do we know another Ratty?” John snapped. 

“ _Fortunately, no. Yeah, I got his number. Want me to just pass along a message?_ ” 

God save him from busybody drum techs. “No, thank you, Crystal. Just his number please.” 

“ _What’s this about? Anything I can help with?_ ” 

“No, Chris, just his number.” 

“ _Wait, is this about your Fender? He’s just getting it tuned up, I think, but he told me he’ll have it ready for next week. I can tell him you’re calling after it?_ ” 

“Chris, just give me his number!” John snapped, losing his patience. “I just want to invite him over for a beer!” 

The line went silent, and for a moment, John thought that maybe it had dropped. He held the phone away from his ear to look at the receiver, barely catching it when Crystal’s tiny voice broke through the static. 

“ _You want to invite Ratty. To your place. For a beer._ ” 

John scowled. “What’s so weird about that.” 

“ _What’s Ratty’s name, John_.” 

“I don’t have to tell you that,” John snipped, petulant and embarrassed at getting caught out. 

“ _That’s what I fuckin’ thought. You want to invite Ratty over for a beer, my arse. Jesus Christ, you and Roger are such a fucking pair it’s just— okay. Don’t do anything else stupid like try Jobby for his number, I couldn’t handle the embarrassment. Just, stay there._ ” 

“Fuck you!” 

“ _No, John, fuck_ you. _Fuck you for making me do this. I’ll be over in fifteen, and you’re paying for the beer._ ” 

John’s head felt like it was spinning. “What? No! Do not come over, Crystal, I mean it!” 

“ _Too late, can’t hear you, getting my shoes on. Fifteen minutes, and if you leave before then than I’ll track you down and kill you myself._ ” 

He hung up the phone with a decisive _click_ , leaving John staring at the phone, unsure of what exactly had just happened. 

Crystal arrived exactly thirteen minutes later—smart, seeing as how John had definitely been planning on legging it after sixteen—a bottle of whisky and two six packs in hand. Ignoring John, he muscled his way into the kitchen in order to stick the beers in the fridge, leaving two out on the counter. Still not looking at John, he used the edge of the counter and popped both tops off, handing one out blindly towards John. 

“Thanks,” John grumbled, taking a hefty swig. 

“Alright,” Crystal sighed after his own pull of beer. “Let’s chat, since you’re clearly so desperate for some sort of human interaction you’re attempting to call _Ratty_ of all people.” 

“I don’t understand what’s so shocking about that.” 

Crystal leveled him with a sharp glare. “Ratty’s name is Peter Hince. His number’s in Roger’s address book, which you would have known if you knew even the first thing about the bloke.” 

John definitely knew that. He blushed, looking away. “I knew that, I just— I just wasn’t sure.” 

“Mhmmm,” Crystal hummed. “Look, I get it. Roger’s hiding at Freddie’s house, Brian is prepping to be a dad—” The two of them pulled a faced at the thought, before both taking a drink. “—But there is no universe in which you calling Ratty to come over for a drink is a good idea. So, here I am.” 

“Uninvited.” 

“Story of my life,” Crystal shrugged. “So, why are we drinking.” 

_Because I’m in love with Roger. Because I might have persuaded his girlfriend into dumping him therefore breaking his heart and driving him to flee to our mutual friend’s home in order to escape me. Also, I’m feeling delicate over the fact that he doesn’t need me the way that I need him._

“Bored,” lied John with a sniff. “Figured I should pass the time somehow.” 

Crystal gave him an unimpressed look. “Right. Okay, fine. Put something on though, I hate to sit in silence. D’you have _Rumours_?” 

John and Crystal sat together in what could only be described as a slightly uncomfortable air as they listened to the record together, making quick work of the beer. As loathe as John was to admit it, Crystal was right. While it was awkward now to be seated on the couch next to Crystal, it would have been vastly more uncomfortable had it been Ratty sprawled on the other end. When it came down to it Ratty was undeniably John’s employee. Crystal was, well. Crystal _technically_ worked for Queen but was, realistically, probably the only reason Roger had made it to his last birthday after the incident with the roof and the swimming pool in Spain. Ratty, however, probably wouldn’t have stuck his foot— dirty boots and all— on John’s coffee table while making quick work of the last of a bag of crisps John had been hoping to save for dinner later. 

He glanced quickly at Crystal’s arm out of the corner of his eye. 

“How’s the elbo—”

“Didja catch the game the other night?” Crystal interrupted purposefully, letting out a belch to punctuate the question.

John frowned, furrowing his brow. “No, I didn’t know there was a footy game. Who was playing?” 

“Oh,” sighed Crystal. “No, not football, rugby.” 

“Oh,” echoed John. “I don’t watch rugby, sorry. I think— I think Roger does?” 

At that, Crystal let out a bark of laughter. “Roger does _not_ watch rugby, unless I’m buying the drinks. Lazy ponce, he makes more money than I ever will but god forbid he forks out a tenner for beer in a pub where Leicester isn’t playing.” 

John couldn’t help his little snort of laughter, “Roger doesn’t support Leicester! He’s a Chelsea fan, though he’ll never admit it. He _routinely_ takes the piss out of me over them, says they’re shite.” 

There was a moment’s pause before John caught Crystal rolling his eyes as he tilted his bottle to scull the last of his beer. “John,” Crystal said magnanimously, “You are a _fucking_ idiot.” 

Any protests to the insult were lost to Crystal stuffing another bottle into his hand and loudly announcing that they needed to find something decent on the telly or he would die of boredom. 

Halfway through an episode of _Coronation Street_ , which John had only been watching for the sake of having nothing else to say, Crystal cleared his throat.

“You know,” Crystal, hummed thoughtfully from where he had migrated to taking up half the couch. “When I first met you and Roger, I assumed you were together.” 

John paused, the edge of his beer bottle cold against his lower lip. Of all the things Crystal could have said, this was the last thing John would have expected. Steeling himself, he forced himself to look back at Crystal nonchalantly, willing his heart rate to slow and his face to remain unflushed. 

“Did you now,” he replied mildly. “And why is that.” 

Crystal shrugged, avoiding his eye as he watched Hilda Ogden miss out on her chance of having a colored tv. 

“I mean, when you have someone who looks like _that_ —” He gestured at one of the many pictures of Roger posted on the wall with his beer, emphasizing Roger’s outfit in one which included an outrageously expensive fur coat and pink glittery Converse sneakers. “One gets certain... _ideas_.” 

“Mhmmm,” John hummed, doing his best to drown himself with his own beer. 

“Plus, you can’t deny that Roger is a _very_ pretty man.” 

At that, John arched an eyebrow, finally twisting to look at Crystal, who shrugged with a half grin. “I’m straight but I’m not _blind_ , Deacy. I can appreciate someone who looks nice!” 

John bit back his remark in favor of popping the top of another bottle of beer. 

“And,” Crystal continued, completely ignoring the fact that John no longer wished to partake in the conversation. “There’s the whole flatmate thing.” 

John froze, narrowing his eyes. “What about the whole flatmate thing?” 

Crystal threw up his hands in self defense, “Nothing! Nothing! Just, well, I mean, the two of you definitely had enough money by the time I started working for you guys to get your own place! So to me, it was suspicious, alright? But then—” Crystal took a quick gulp of his beer, wiping the back of his mouth with his hands. “ _Then_ I saw how useless Roger is on his own, and it all made sense. If you weren’t living with Roger, he’d be dead by now. Taken by scurvy, or by putting a can of beans in the microwave, or by choking on his own vomit in his sleep.” 

“He sleeps in the recovery position,” John grumbled under his breath.

Crystal gave him a pointed look.

A good friend would have kicked up a fuss at the slander, but nothing Crystal said was untrue. John simply sighed, accepting his role as best mate and mother. He’d been called worse. 

“There’s also the fact that neither Roger nor myself are gay,” John pointed out, watching as _Coronation Street_ faded into an advert for Solvit wallpaper glue. Which, now that John was thinking of it, might come in handy. They’d thrown what was supposed to be a simple dinner party for their birthdays earlier in the summer, but it had quickly divested into something akin to that of a bacchanalian festival, with drinks and drugs and girls everywhere. Their flat had been bursting at the seams, and, in the wreckage of the next morning, John and Roger had discovered that the wallpaper in their bathroom was left worse for wear. They had bought a new roll of paper in order to redecorate, but had yet to get around to fixing the mess. Maybe that’s what John would do while he waited for Roger to return. 

John was startled out of his contemplation by Crystal’s snort. 

“Deacy, mate, you don’t have to lie to me,” Crystal chuckled. “I know we’re not supposed to discuss the elephant in the room, but I know.” John arched an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. Crystal waved his beer bottle around, as though emphasizing what John didn’t know. “I get it, it’s not well known, but c’mon. I’ve picked Roger up from clubs and hotel rooms enough to know that he likes to play for both teams, m’kay? Don’t think I don’t know he and Dom liked to invite both Adam _and_ Eve to their bedroom. Don’t worry, the secret’s safe with me.” 

For a moment, it seemed to John as though the entire world had flipped upside down and inside out; things that before made sense now did not. The sky was green, the ocean red, up was down, and Roger was gay. Roger was gay, but not for John. John, who was too angular and too sharp while being all-together too plain. Roger was breathtaking and gorgeous, the kind of man you couldn’t help but look at twice, while John — John was the sort of fellow who faded into the background, only remembered as a sort of afterthought, someone who might have been there, but you weren’t sure. If Roger was the sun, John wasn’t so much as a cloud in the sky. Of course Roger would rather be with anyone else than boring, plain old John.

John was startled out of his life-altering revery by Crystal jamming his too-sharp elbow into his side; “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think Brian’s even clued onto it, the poor sap.” 

John hummed absently, still reeling from the revelation. Roger was gay. He was gay, and John still didn’t have a chance. Not only did he not have a chance, _he didn’t know_. Crystal knew, Dominique knew, and if they knew, then Freddie surely had to as well. John was, once again, viscerally reminded that Roger didn’t need him. He felt like crying, but swallowed down the itch in his throat with the dregs of his beer. 

Crystal cut him a look from the side of his eye, but said nothing in favor of pouring out two fingers of whisky. John took the glass, raising it silent thanks as he tried to force his mind away from imagining Roger rolling around the sheets with some faceless man. He took a sip of whisky, felt the burn in the back of his throat, and forced himself to breathe. 

He thought of Roger again, and took another sip. Again, and another. He finished the glass, accepted another two fingers, and repeated the motions until he could think of nothing but the bitter bite of whisky.

*

The next morning, he awoke with a raging hangover and the subtle humiliating knowledge that Crystal had helped him into bed. He vaguely remembered telling him that he was glad Roger had Crystal, and he cringed. Crystal was the sort of person to never forget any sort of humiliating affair, no matter how much he liked someone. One of his favorite tour past times was dramatically reinacting all the stupid stunts Roger had pulled over the years, beginning with the one time he’d falled off the risers due to his stool being pulled to early, to the terrible night he’d had to talk himself out of an indecent exposure ticket by explaining to an irate police officer in Madrid that it was never his intention to get locked out of a hotel room sans his clothes, it was merely due to the groupie he’d taken home getting so excited to have fucked _the_ Roger Taylor that she’d run off with his clothes while he was in the loo, including his hotel room key. 

John could only imagine how Crystal would phrase this particular meltdown to the others. Groaning, he rolled over in bed and pulled the covers back over his head. He was just about to roll out of bed when he remembered his dream: Roger, flushed and panting, getting taken from behind by a faceless man who laughed at John for not being what Roger wanted, what Roger needed. John could do nothing but watch as Roger, lovely and gorgeous, agreed. Even in his dreams, he wasn’t enough for Roger. 

John decided it was too much. Smooshing his face into the pillow, he willed himself back to sleep. He spent the day in bed.

*

By the sixth day, he’d decided that it was time for him to get out of the house; he was making himself more miserable lying in bed waiting for Roger to come home. The more he sat around doing nothing, the more he was trapped in his own head, picturing Roger never returning to the flat, Roger falling in love with another man, Roger, Roger, Roger, Roger— 

John made quick work of getting dressed, pulling on the first pair of trousers and jumper he could find before heading out the door. 

He spent the day walking around London, his jacket turned up against the bitter January wind, ducking into the occasional cafe or pub when the chill got to be too much. For all the time that he’d lived in London, he’d never really explored it on his own. He and Roger had spent most of their down time between tours and recordings running around the different boroughs, taking advantage of not having to work a nine-to-five by going to the museums and restaurants, or taking a picnic in Hyde Park to stretch out in the rare sunshine. And, before that, there’d been Veronica, who’d been a huge fan of exploring the city, just the two of them. 

But he’d never done it alone. 

He’d been nervous, for lack of a better word, before. Nervous that it would be awkward or boring, but instead he found it exactly the sort of thing he needed to get out of his head. He didn’t have to rely on anyone but himself, think of anything but whether he wanted a pint or a coffee. He ducked in and out of stores, sauntered his way along the Thames with a sausage roll in hand, and allowed himself to meander through a record store, amusing himself with the knowledge that the teens in the corner listening to _News Of The World_ had no idea that the bassist for Queen was standing next to them flicking through the disco section. 

Despite the mess that the previous week had been, he found himself genuinely enjoying himself and his little ‘self-date’. By the time the sun was setting, John had spent the whole day in a relatively good mood, made only better by the tea he’d bought for himself from a stand in the underground, accompanied by a tea cake. 

Whistling, he skipped up the steps to their flat, making his way through the door just in time to catch the phone ringing. Carefully setting down the tea and cake, he scooped up the receiver and tucked it between his shoulder and ear. 

“John Deacon speaking,” he said, reaching to unravel his tea cake.

“ _John? Christ, where have you been? I’ve been ringing you all day, I half thought you were dead!_ ” Roger’s voice exploded through the line, loud despite the tininess of the reception. 

John fumbled with the cake, nearly dropping it as he stood straight up. “Roger?” 

“ _Who else would it be! Where have you been?_ ” 

“Out,” John said, still reeling at the sound of Roger’s voice. “You’ve been calling?” 

“ _Yes! All day!_ ” 

“Oh,” said John, pleasantly surprised. He felt almost warmed by the thought of Roger desperately trying to get a hold of him. “Well, sorry about that. But I’m here now.” 

“Good, good.” 

There was a pause, wherein John didn’t know what to say. Should he even mention Dominique? Ask how he was doing? Or should he keep quiet? Or was that too rude? He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. “So, um, how— um, how are you doing?” 

“ _Hungover as_ shit, _I’m not going to lie. Plus, Freddie insisted on making me breakfast, said it might help but all it did was give me indigestion. Surprised I even survived, I’d forgotten how terrible of a flatmate he is—_ ” 

There was a squawk, followed by a crash, then; “ _Deacy, don’t listen to any of his lies! He’s been a right proper brat this whole week despite my generosity—_ ” 

“ _— Fred, give me back the phone—_ ” 

“ _— I’ve suffered Deacy, honestly, it’s been terrible, you should be thanking me for taking him off your hands—_ ” 

John stared at the wall as he listened to the two of them bicker; experience told him that Freddie would either lose interest or Roger would manage to wrestle the phone out of his hand. It took a minute, but finally Freddie was banished from the phone with a not so subtle curse. 

“ _Wanker_ ,” Roger grunted, his voice breathless. “ _You still there?_ ” 

“I’m here,” said John. 

“ _Good, good. Listen, I was thinking. Do you, um— for dinner. Maybe we could, uh, try, erm...Do you like pasta?_ ” 

John frowned, tangling his finger in the chord. “Yes…?” 

“ _Excellent, okay. So, um, Freddie was telling me about this great Italian restaurant? If you want to try it? Tomorrow night?_ ” 

He felt as though his face would split in two from his grin. “Sure, Rog, sounds great. I hope they’ve got gnocchi, remember that place we went to in Little Italy in Chicago? Best damn gnocchi of my life.” 

Roger chuckled on the other side, “ _God, yes, that place was sinfully good. But tomorrow? At like, eight? Here, I’ve got the address—_ ” 

John scribbled down the name of the restaurant, repeating it back to Roger just to make sure he had the right place. 

“ _Perfect! Okay, so tomorrow, eight o’clock. I’ll see you then?_ ” 

“Yes,” John nodded before remembering that Roger wouldn’t be able to see him. “Although, hey, Rog, how, erm — you didn’t answer. Before, that is. How’re you doing? Y’alright?” 

There was a pause, and John wondered if he’d pushed too far before Roger answered, “ _M’doing real good, Deaks. Freddie’s been helping me figure some things out, but I think it’s all going to work out. I’ll tell you all about it? Tomorrow?_ ” 

John grinned. “Tomorrow it is. Have a good night, Rog.” 

“ _You, too, Deaks. Sleep well._ ” 

John settled the phone back into the cradle carefully. Tomorrow, at eight, he and Roger would get dinner. Smiling, he returned to his tea cake and tea, settling himself in front of the telly. 

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. 

*

John arrived early to the restaurant, as he usually did. Years of overcompensating for Freddie’s perpetual lateness had had him develop a habit of showing up ten minutes before the start time, just in case, so as to prepare for anything that might go wrong due to their lead singer’s poor time management. Figuring that Roger would still be stuck within the whims of Freddie’s mood, John made sure to inform the hostess that he was part of the Taylor reservation. 

Immediately, he was led through the restaurant to the back, where a secluded table had been set up behind an auspicious array of shrubbery that promised privacy. The table was nicely made up, with a tablecloth, flowers, and a candle. Unlike the majority of the restaurants they tended to frequent this was a _nice_ restaurant, not a hole the wall they’d found back when they’d had no money. Of course, being in a famous rock band came with a few perks, so John wouldn’t have said he was _unaccustomed_ to a five-star restaurant, but it wasn’t exactly what he’d expected. 

Then again, Roger _had_ said Freddie had recommended it. That did tend to yield results that veered wildly between ostentatiousness and outright, proud tackiness.

As he waited for Roger to arrive, he took advantage of Roger’s absence to pour over the wine list. Roger had a preference for fruitier reds, while John prefered dry. He figured that since he was the first to arrive, he’d get first pick of the wine. Knowing the two of them, they’d finish two bottles each, especially if Roger was still in need of cheering up. 

Waving down the waiter, he ordered a decently priced Tiganello, going through the motions of pretending he knew how to properly taste the wine. It tasted like vinegar, but like the kind of vinegar it was supposed to taste like — he nodded to the sommelier. He checked his watch; as expected, Roger was running late. As the waiter brought over a basket of breadsticks, John pulled at the edge of his shirt collar, suddenly hot in the restaurant. 

Thirty minutes later, John had made his way through the bread basket and the bottle of wine, feeling decently tipsy and humiliated. Roger was late, and terribly so. John had taken to avoiding the pitying glances from the wait staff. He would give him ten more minutes, and if Roger didn’t arrive before then, John would ask for a second bottle of wine to go, pay his bill, and go home to drink himself into his grave. 

“Mr. Deacon?” 

John blinked up at the pretty waitress, who was blushing sweetly. “Yes?” 

“A Mr. Taylor called for you. He apologizes for being late, claims, erm,” she cut herself off, looking down at her notepad as her blush deepened. “I’m terribly sorry, it’s a bit crass, but um, he said that, um—” 

John took pity on her, he could only imagine what Roger’d had to say. “It’s alright, I don’t need to hear it, I’m sure he’ll tell me when he arrives. Did he tell you when he’d be arriving?” 

She nodded, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Yes, sir. He said that he’d arrive in ten minutes, and that you should order a gin and tonic.” 

John rolled his eyes playfully, “Right, as if a gin and tonic will make up for almost getting stood up. Well, thank you for passing along his message, I do appreciate it.” 

“Of course, Mr. Deacon. Is, is there anything else I can get you? More bread?” she asked, twisting her hands together. 

“That would be lovely, thank you. And maybe a starter of bruschetta as well.” 

The girl hurried to place his order, leaving John to once again sit in wait for Roger. 

Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait much longer. Roger burst through the front door in a rush, brushing off the attentions of the maître d' as they attempted to take his name and coat, and almost running down an elderly couple as he beelined his way to their table. 

“I am _so_ sorry,” Roger huffed as he threw himself down onto the chair across from John, not even bothering to remove his jacket first. “It’s all Freddie’s fault, of _course_. He wouldn’t let me leave the house until he’d picked out my outfit, and then he insisted that we swing by the flat to get something, and by the time I was able to wrestle the keys out of his hand it was already half past, and—” 

“It’s fine,” John laughed. If it had been anyone else John would have been furious, and most likely wouldn’t have even stayed long enough to hear an excuse. For Roger, though, John would was used to waiting — dinner, at least, promised a secure enough resolution. “Fair warning though, I’ve drunk half a bottle of red and I’m halfway through your suggested G&T, so you might want to catch up to me.” 

Roger frowned, looking at the full wine glass and half empty cocktail. “You’re drunk,” he stated, sounding strangely unhappy. 

John snorted. “Takes quite a bit more to get me drunk, Rog. But I am getting there.” 

Roger opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the waitress from before delivering the bruschetta. John thanked her, watching as she looked at Roger and blushed again before scurrying away again as Roger scowled at her. 

“You made her nervous,” John teased, reaching for his glass. “She must have a crush on you. Who can blame her though, you do look rather nice tonight.” 

Roger preened, fluffing his hair with one hand before shirking himself of his fur coat. “What can I say? I like to dress to impress.” 

“You don’t have to with me,” John scoffed. “I’ve quite literally seen you covered in your own sick. There’s no longer any element of mystery.” 

Curiously, Roger flushed, looking down at the bruschetta. “Did you have a chance to look over the menu? See anything good?” 

John looked at the menu in hand, running his fingers down the options. “I was thinking maybe the _abbacchio alla cacciatora?_ I’m in the mood for lamb chops.” 

Roger pulled a face, frowning as he squinted down at the menu, “I thought you wanted gnocchi?” 

“I did,” John shrugged. “But it doesn’t look like they serve it.” 

Roger flushed even darker, snapping his menu shut as he turned as though searching for the gnocchi himself. “They don’t have gnocchi? I was told they had gnocchi, maybe it’s just not on the menu—” 

Normally, if anyone was to throw a fit in a restaurant, it would be Freddie, not Roger. John frowned, perplexed. 

“Roger, it’s fine—” 

“It’s _not_ fine,” he snapped, glaring down at the menu as if he could make gnocchi an option through sheer force of will and a pair of dodgy eyes. “You wanted gnocchi, and you should get your damn gnocchi!” 

“I don’t _need_ it, honestly, the lamp chops are fine.” 

“They shouldn’t just be fine, it should be great! Great!” Roger insisted, working himself into a tizzy. “I’m going to get your gnocchi, here, flag down that waitress and I’ll get the wine. We can go to another place, I’m sure we can find somewhere that serves gnocchi. What kind of half decent Italian restaurant doesn't have gnocchi—” 

“ _Roger_ ,” John interrupted, dropping his voice to little more than a hiss. “It’s okay! I don’t want to go anywhere, I’ll get the lamb and I’ll survive without the gnocchi.” 

“But—” 

“No.” 

Roger’s lips pursed into a little moue that John desperately wanted to kiss away. Instead, he pushed his own glass of wine at Roger forcefully before taking a large bite of the brushcetta, distracting himself with tomatoes and bread. 

“How was Freddie’s?” John asked around his mouthful as Roger grudgingly took a deep quaff, near finishing the glass in one drag.. 

Roger winced, John clenched his fist on the table. “It, uh, it was good. Spent most of it drunk, so I’m not super sure what we did until Sunday? But it was nice,” Roger shrugged. Suddenly, John found himself on the other end of some rather intense eye contact as Roger leaned forward onto his forearms. “I spent most of it figuring some things out, making sure of some stuff. But I’ve fixed the problem, and I think it’ll be good now.” 

John cocked an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat. “Really? That’s it? One week and you’re good?” 

Roger nodded, smiling as he reached across the table to place his hand over John’s in some motion of comfort. “Yup, one week. Let’s say, my, uh, eyes, were opened. And now we’re good. I’m ready to move forward.” 

“Just like that.” 

“Well,” Roger lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Not _just_ like that, but pretty damn close. I mean, I did spend most of the past week blacked out. And I’m strong enough to admit there were a few tears, but—” 

“You’re good,” John finished for him. He didn’t believe him for one second. John had thought he’d been okay, back when his own disastrous break up had just happened, and it had taken him two weeks to realize that he _wasn’t_. Roger could tell himself all he wanted that one week was enough to fix a broken heart, but John knew better. Furthermore, Roger’s hand was still infuriatingly placed over John’s. Figuring that Roger was looking for some semblance of comfort, John turned his hand over and held Roger’s, giving it a brief squeeze before letting go in favor of stealing back his wine glass. 

John couldn’t help but notice that Roger looked slightly upset; it only went to further prove that he wasn’t as fine as he was claiming to be. 

“It’s okay,” John said, keeping his voice quiet. “It’s okay to be upset. No one is expecting you to bounce back one hundred percent right away.” 

Roger furrowed his brows, “I _know_. That’s why I took the week. I’ve gotten it out of my system and honestly, I’m ready to get back into the groove of things, start over fresh.” And then, as an afterthought, he added, “With you.” 

John flushed, looking away and taking a much larger sip of wine. He frowned as he hit nought but air and reached for the bottle. He’d all but finished it; adding the rest into his glass, he waved the now empty bottle over at the waitress, nodding as she scurried to grab another. Under the table, something bumped against his foot; Roger had accidentally kicked him. He moved his foot out of the way. 

“Well,” John coughed, turning back to Roger and his incredibly intense eye contact. “I’m happy to help. I’m glad you’re feeling better, but I want you to know that I’m here for you, for as long as you need me.” 

Roger beamed, practically blinding John from the force. “I know, John. That’s why you’re...you’re my best friend, and I love you.” 

Again, John blushed. It had to be the wine, not the fact that Roger said that he loved him. Like a friend, clearly. At least, that’s what he’d tell himself. As the waitress made her way back to their table, he cleared his throat, looking back at the menu. 

“So,” John coughed. “Lamb?”

*

The rest of dinner, John kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Roger was happy, laughing and telling jokes, making light conversation in between bites of frankly sinful Italian food. He kept offering bites of his spaghetti _alle vongole_ to John, at one point even holding out his fork, trying to get John to allow himself to be fed. He was charming and suave and, while John was keeping up a steady flow of Tiganello, Roger barely touched his wine now that he’d calmed down, resulting in John getting steadily drunker. 

By the time their dessert—tiramisu with chocolate covered espresso beans—arrived, John was officially drunk. He didn’t even have to look to know that his cheeks were rosy with wine, or that he was squinting far too hard for it to be anything else. Roger, for his part, just looked fond, running his spoon through the dessert. 

At one point, he scooped up a decadent spoonful of cream, lapping the silverware clean while he stared at John. John’s mouth went dry as he watched, shifting in his seat as he grew hard. It took him a moment to regain his composure, hiding his arousal behind the napkin in his lap and his own spoonful of cake. The heady look in Roger’s eyes, however, had John squirming in the fear that he’d not been as inconspicuous as he’d hoped. 

When the check came, Roger easily knocked John’s wallet out of his hand, sending him half onto the floor to rescue it from under the table cloth. By the time John was able to right himself, Roger had paid for the bill, signing his name on the check with a flourish and a wink in John’s direction. 

“I invited you, I pay,” Roger explained with a cocksure grin. 

“My entree was more expensive,” John attempted to argue. “And I drank more than you.” 

“So next time, you pay,” Roger shrugged. “Plus, it’s not like I can’t afford it.” 

“That’s not the point—” 

“Too bad, I’ve paid, it’s done,” Roger sighed as he pushed off from the table and stood, shrugging into his jacket. “Shall we?” 

John followed him towards the door, holding his own jacket in hand as he continued to try and bicker his way into being right. 

“I’m just saying, we should have at least split the bill!” Roger grabbed John’s jacket from his hands and held it out for him, pulling it up onto him and brushing down his shoulders. “Oh, thanks, Rog.” 

“Of course,” Roger nodded, stepping into the street to flag down a taxi. “Look, I’ve told you, I don’t mind. If it bothers you that much, then you can make it up to me. How about Wednesday? At that steakhouse Miami loves.” 

John nodded. “Done. Wednesday night, it’s a date. And—” He wagged his finger in Roger’s face, “—I’m buying.” 

Roger beamed, evidently happy at the thought of a good porterhouse and brandy. “It’s a date,” he repeated. The taxi appeared, and he held open the door for John, waving him inside before following, sliding up close to John as he rattled off their address for the driver. 

The entire ride home, they sat pressed close to each other to try and keep warm in the chilly cab. John could feel the entire press of Roger’s leg against his own; he bit down on his lip to keep himself from reaching over to touch. It was practically torturous to have Roger so close suddenly after the past week apart.

When they reached home, Roger again beat John to the punch, throwing a banknote through the window at the driver before sliding out, giggling as he ran to open the front door, completely ignoring John’s complaints. 

“It’s not like I don’t have the money,” Roger teased, holding open the door and waving John through first. “I wanted to pay! As a thank you!” 

“Let me pay you back,” argued John, storming towards his own bedroom. “I’m serious!” 

“As am I! I don’t want your money! All I wanted was for you to have a good night,” Roger sighed as he followed John. John paused, right at his door. 

“I did,” he said quietly, turning carefully to face him. It as hard work thanks to the wine, but he hoped he didn’t look like too much of a mess. “I had a great night. I…I’ve missed you.” 

Roger’s face softened as he stepped closer, close enough that he had to tilt his head to look at John. “I missed you too. I’m glad to be home.” 

John nodded. “And, next Wednesday, I’m buying dinner. As a thank you.” 

Roger’s eyes seemed impossibly big, heavy lidded and bright in the light from the front hall. John watched in fascination as he licked his wine stained lips, watched how they shone. “It’s a date,” Roger said, almost as though he were convincing himself. “You and me.” 

“Yes,” agreed John. “You and I.” 

Roger opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something before stepping impossibly closer. “Well,” he drawled. “It’s getting late.” 

“Yeah,” said John. 

“Would you, erm, like a nightcap?” he offered, jerking his thumb behind himself towards his own bedroom. “I’ve got some whisky, and vodka, I think. I could make you a gin and tonic, if you’d prefer?” 

John huffed out a laugh as he rubbed the back of his neck. “No, no, thanks, I think I’ve had more than enough. We should go to bed.” 

Roger blushed, looking behind John towards his bed. “We—?” 

Now it was John’s turn to blush, running his hand down his face in the hopes that it would sober him up. “I mean, you can stay up, if you’d like. But I need to sleep. Sleep off the wine, you know what red wine does to me. I can barely keep m’eyes open as is, so, yes. Sleep. For me. Not you, unless you want to sleep as well. But I’m, uh, I’m gonna sleep.” 

Maybe it was the wine or the awkwardness of the whole situation, but Roger looked almost disappointed, his face falling as he figured out what John was trying to say. 

“Oh,” he said. “Okay. Well, um, goodnight then. I uh, hope you sleep well.” 

In a split second, John decided to wrap Roger into a hug, pulling him in tight and tucking his face into the crook of his neck. “Goodnight, Roger,” he whispered. Against him, Roger shivered. 

“Goodnight, John,” Roger whispered back. 

Regrettably, John had to pull away, stepping away from Roger into his own room, closing the door behind him. He threw himself onto his bed with a groan before rolling over to press his face into his pillow. Sleep did not come easy.

*

The next three weeks were just as weird. Despite John’s original doubt and apprehension over Roger’s claims that he was, in fact, already over Dominique, it appeared that he was wrong. Roger seemed like he always did, cheery and bright and happy-go-lucky. The only difference was that he seemed—for lack of a better word—clingy. Roger made plans almost every single night for the two of them; the movies, dinner, lunch dates, even going shopping for new strings for his Fender was turned into an event. John would come back from the shops to Roger mixing him a cocktail while queuing up a film he’d mentioned wanting to see, or find a home cooked meal (never actually made by Roger, usually made by Chrissie) simmering on the stove. When they went to the cinema, Roger would insist on paying, no matter if he’d bought dinner the night before or had previously expressed little interest in the film. When they went to see _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ , Roger had begged and bullied him into giving up his sweater, insistent that that theatre was too cold and utterly unrepentant for ignoring John’s advice as they’d been leaving to wear something more than a t-shirt. Not that John was complaining, not really He’d fished the sweater from the laundry basket that very night and slept with it covering his pillowcase.. And, when they spent a Saturday at the arcade, Roger had refused to leave until he’d won enough tickets to get John a little ham radio for him to tinker with.

It was as though Roger was doing his best to distract from his loneliness by substituting Dominique’s presence with John’s; he filled every gap of his life with John and John alone. 

John hated how much he enjoyed it, for he knew it wasn’t long to last. Once Roger was finally over Dominique—not just in the sense that he would stop crying or feeling sad—but properly over her, and no longer looking for John to fill in the cracks within his heart, John was going to be left alone again. He didn’t know if he could handle seeing Roger dating someone else after almost one entire month of… almost perfection. How would he be able to sink back into the background of Roger’s life once more after basking in the warmth of his affection, his attention, _him_. 

It had almost killed him last time, and he knew he had been a shitty friend because of it. It was not Roger’s fault that John had inappropriate feelings for him, and he was determined not to make the same mistakes twice; determined not to fall into the intoxicating embrace of denial and comfort which had so ensnared him in the past. No, he knew better now.

And so, he planned for a night out. A night where he could go, get away from the confusing codependency he had developed with Roger, get him out of his system and out of his _sight_. 

If only Roger had the same idea. 

He caught John right before he’d gone out, fluffing at his roots and smoothing invisible wrinkles from his button down in the hall mirror, twisting this way and that to make sure that he looked good. 

“Did we make plans?” Roger called from the kitchen, coming into view of the mirror to frown at John’s outfit. “I thought we were staying in tonight to watch _The Late Show_.” 

John pulled a face; they had discussed it, yes, but that was before John found himself locked in the bathroom having a furious wank over the sight of Roger in his skivvies leaning over to help him with the crossword. His underwear had had a hole near the hip, he’d had terrible morning breath and had missed a patch just under his jaw when shaving the day before; John had wanted so desperately not to find it attractive, had been almost impressed with his self control in fact, right up until Roger had reached down to scratch absently at his happy trail as he considered seven down.

“Right,” he frowned. “Sorry, I forgot. I want to go out though, have a bit of a dance, maybe a drink or two.” 

Roger lit up like a Christmas tree. “Sounds great! Give me ten to get ready, and we can go together!” 

He rushed into his own room, slamming the door behind him. For a moment, John considered shouting after him that he’d only meant himself, but thought better of himself. When John had needed Roger, Roger had spent six months drunker than sin with John. Taking Roger out was the least he could do. Sighing, he settled in in the living room to wait for Roger to finish getting ready.

Roger made good on his word and was fully dressed within ten minutes, sporting a striped blazer and dark washed jeans. John fought the urge to roll his eyes— of course it took him ten minutes to look like an actual model while John had spent forty-five minutes deciding which shirt to wear _alone_. Typical Roger, accidentally gorgeous. 

“Ready?” Roger asked, bouncing on his feet eagerly. 

John carefully got to his feet, leading the way to the front door. “Yes, let’s.”

*

In a rare moment of normality, John was able to pay for their drinks first, shoving the shot of vodka into Roger’s hands, followed by a heavy handed vodka sour. The two of them knocked back their drinks as the DJ blasted _Saturday Night Fever_ , leaving John tapping his foot to the beat. 

“Do you want to dance?” Roger shouted over the bass, gesturing towards the mass of people who’d congregated in the middle, moving as one. 

“Lemme finish my drink,” John shouted back. Roger nodded in agreement and copied John in sculling their drinks. Once their glasses were empty, Roger grabbed ahold of John’s hand and all but dragged him onto the dance floor, doing a facsimile of a seizure. 

“What are you doing?” John laughed, watching as Roger shook as though he’d been electrocuted. 

Roger scowled but didn’t stop. “Dancing!” 

John couldn’t help but laugh again, tossing his head back as he let the music run through him, leading his hips. He let himself go, twisting and turning and bopping to the music. It was easy to get lost in the rhythm and he let himself fall. 

Hands, warm and heavy on his hips, brought him back down to earth as he opened his eyes to see Roger swaying in close, getting pushed by the crowd into him. John licked his lips, watching as Roger tilted his head to look at him, eyes flashing bright under the disco lights as they moved together as one, hip to hip and practically chest to chest, held close together by the press of the crowd. 

It was intimate and powerful and maddening and it felt so fucking right that John had to dig his nails into his palms to stop himself from reaching out and taking Roger right there. He wanted to lick the taste of vodka and lime out of his mouth, wanted to trace the sheen of sweat on his chest with his hands, wanted to know how it felt to hear Roger moan in ecstasy in his ear. John wanted all that Roger could give and wanted to give him all that he could in return. He wanted to hold him, to fuck him, to kiss him, to have him. He wanted Roger to the point of delirium, to the very cusp of madness itself; he wanted Roger and he wanted him here, now, in this club where it wasn’t safe at all for even the barest fringes of his desire, let alone the darkest depths of his hunger, the ever yawning furrow of his devotion.

It terrified him. 

And so he disengaged, shouting an excuse of wanting a drink as he pulled away from Roger’s tantalizing gaze and wicked hips. Panting from the effort, John barely was able to shout out his drink order, too flustered to correct the bartender when they made a vodka soda instead. Vodka was vodka was vodka, and he’d need it to get through the rest of the night. 

Turning to rest his back against the bar, he watched as a woman approached Roger, wrapping herself around him. Against his better judgement, John was almost happy for Roger. Yes, he’d much preferred for it to be him taking Roger home, but a pipe dream was just that; a dream. Roger needed to let go and he needed to find someone to let him fuck Dominique out of him. John had no doubt in his mind that he’d be returning to an empty apartment alone. 

He finished his drink, and made to order another when someone came up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. John turned to see a gorgeous woman in yellow standing next to him, winking as she leaned against him.

“Sorry!” she yelled, teetering on her heels. “I’ve bought new shoes, and they’re killing me. Mind if I borrow your shoulder?” 

John shook his hand, gesturing for the bartender to add a second shot of vodka to his order. 

“I’m Melissa,” the girl shouted. 

“John,” he returned. Melissa grinned, nodding to him. 

The two shots were delivered to him, and he handed over the pounds, nudging the second towards Melissa. She smiled gratefully, choosing instead to sip at the alcohol. 

“It’s my sister’s birthday,” Melissa informed him, her voice just quiet enough that John had to lean in to hear her. “She’s just turned twenty-four!” 

“Happy birthday to your sister,” John joked. “Do I need to buy her a drink, too?” 

Melissa laughed. “No, she’ll survive on her own. But I should buy you a drink, for being such a good cane for me!” 

John shook his head; he’d had enough now for a while. They chatted— as much as anyone could chat under the cacophony of a disco— for a bit, her still leaning against him and him allowing himself to be her support. John was just about to beg off in favor of finding Roger when he appeared at his shoulder, his face thunderous. 

“Speak of the devil,” John shouted. “Were your ears burning?” 

“Where have you been?” Roger bellowed. “You left me out there alone!” 

John felt bad for a moment. “I wanted another drink, but now I’m helping Melissa as her shoes hurt.” 

“Who the _fuck_ is Melissa?” Roger snarled, glaring. John frowned, it was unlike Roger to be so crabby unprovoked. He turned to look and see where his dance partner had gone; had she been caught out by a jealous boyfriend? Or had Roger merely grown tired of her. 

“I’m Melissa,” Melissa shouted, sticking her hand out for Roger to shake. Roger did not, choosing instead to glare at her. 

“Do you want a drink?” John asked, trying his best to diffuse the situation. 

Roger turned from glaring at Melissa to nod carefully, “Vodka sour?” 

John again flagged down the bartender, making sure to enunciate enough that Roger would get the exact drink he wanted. Melissa, still hanging off him, moved to flick a spot of fuzz off of his shirt. 

“Thanks,” said John, turning to flash her a quick grin. Next to him, he could see Roger bristle from the corner of his eye, and he frowned. It wasn’t like Roger to be so rude, unless— 

John could have kicked himself. Of course Roger was going to be bitter, here John was, letting a beautiful girl hang all over him when Roger knew that John was not only not interested, but supposed to be making sure Roger forgot about Dominique. Subtly, John twisted his torso so that Melissa was now facing Roger, trying his best to push them closer while he slowly edged out of the way. 

The bartender delivered Roger’s drink; John practically lunged to pay for it, knocking Melissa over, forcing Roger to grab her arm so as to not send her tumbling onto the ground. 

“Jesus, John,” Roger swore, steadying Melissa with both hands on her upper arms. “You alright?”

“Sorry,” John lied, unable to keep the flush off his face. “My bad.”

Carefully, he stepped back from the two of them, watching as Melissa gravitated towards Roger while Roger held her upright, holding his drink in his other hand. Melissa drunkenly swayed into Roger’s space, placing her hand on his chest as she fluttered her eyelashes up at him adoringly. Roger, for his credit, looked at John first, waiting until he gave him an encouraging nod, to smile down at her. The moment they were properly distracted, John shouted an excuse about needing the loo, loping off through the crowd towards the bathrooms. 

Shoving his way into the bathroom, he made his way to the sinks, resting his hands on the edge of the sink, staring at his reflection. As always, John never knew how drunk he actually was until he was in a bathroom; something about the fluorescent lights and shitty mirrors always seemed to reflect the worst. Through the shitty door, he could hear the pounding of the bass, so loud it rattled his teeth. With a heavy sigh, he turned on the taps, letting the water run until it was cold to the touch. Gathering up a handful of water, he splashed it over his face, wiping away the sweat from dancing and cooling his feverish cheeks. 

Behind him, the door slammed open, revealing an irate Roger. 

“Deaks! What the fuck?” he yelped. “You left me— _again!_ ” 

John wiped the water from his eyes, frowning. “Where’s Melissa?” 

Roger stared at him, incredulous, “Why the hell should I know? You just threw her at me and _ran_ away! What the hell is going on?” 

Furrowing his brow, John carefully turned to face him, crossing his arms across his chest. “I thought you wanted me to help you get over Dominique?” 

For a moment, Roger looked like he’d been smacked by a board. “What? No, Deacy, I’m _over_ Dominique. I’m over her! I’m not— I thought— this was supposed to me and you! Not you, me, and _Melissa!_ ” 

John struggled with what to say next. It didn’t make sense, Roger had wanted to go out, he wanted to go dancing, why wouldn’t he want to go home with someone beautiful? Roger’s reaction at hearing that, however, was definitely not what John expected. 

Thunderously, Roger stepped close to John and stabbed him in the chest with his finger. “No, John,” he snarled. “That’s not what _I_ wanted. That’s what _you_ wanted. I just wanted to stay in and watch tv or play Scrabble! You were the one who wanted to go out and then _thrust_ some poor girl on me! I just wanted to spend time with _you!_ ” 

Nothing was making sense, “Then why did you even come out?” 

Roger threw his hands in the air, “Because you wanted to! And I wanted to do what you wanted to do! Christ, Deacy, I don’t even know anymore!” 

They stared at each other, ignoring the other bathroom patrons who had entered and left during their spat. John was the first to speak, deflating like a balloon. 

“I just...I wanted to help,” he said as gently as possible while still trying to be heard over the thud of bass. “I wanted to help you.” 

“You were helping me,” Roger sighed. “But, not like this. Okay? I don’t want you pushing me towards hooking up with some random _floozy_ , I want to spend time with you. Okay?” 

John quirked a smile; “Floozy? Who even are you, Brian? No one says that.” 

Roger rolled his eyes, reaching out to slap John’s chest with the back of his hand. “I do, I say it, alright? And I mean it. I don’t need all this—” He gestured unceremoniously at the bathroom. “ — I need you. _Just_ you.” 

Warmth flooded his chest as he smiled down at Roger. Roger needed him, and only him, and by god, John was going to do anything and everything he could to make him happy. 

“Alright,” John shrugged, rocking forward to bump shoulders with him. “No need to be so dramatic, you idiot.” 

Again, Roger rolled his eyes, “Piss off, John.” 

Laughing, John made his way to the door. “Well, if this isn’t going to help, how about the two of us go and find a takeaway still open and head back home? I’ll buy, since I cocked this whole evening up.” 

“It _is_ only fair,” Roger nodded, eyes wide and solemn.

*

They managed to find a chippy shop close by that was not only open late but also relatively empty. John dutifully bought Roger a battered sausage with mushy peas, while he decided on his own jumbo haddock. Together, they picked through their food as they wandered their way back to the flat in the late January cold, the two of them bumping against east other every so often as they went. Roger was generous, offering John bites of his food with only minor suggestive jokes, while John made sure to pick out the crispy fries— Roger’s favorites— to toss into his takeaway box. 

By the time they made it home, they were stuffed full of greasy food and chilled to the bone, John hopping up and down outside the door as Roger struggled with the keys with numb fingers. Finally, they pushed their way inside, shedding their jackets on their way to the kitchen for a pick-me-up pot of tea. 

“Oh,” Roger called over his shoulder as he started pulling down mugs. “I forgot to tell you. I bought you a roll of Hobnobs from the shops the other day, I put them in my cabinet. Grab them, will you?” 

John’s head shot up as he glared at Roger. “Why’d you buy me another roll? Did you eat mine _again?_ Roger, we’ve had this talk!” 

The kettle clanked against the side of the sink as Roger swung it under the tap, his voice exasperated as he said, “No, John, I didn’t finish yours. Just felt like buying you another box, they were on mark down.” He stuck it on the hob. “Though, if you don’t want me finishing yours, you should move them from where you’ve stashed them under the sink. Honestly, it’s too easy at this point.” 

John scowled, cutting a look towards the cupboard under the sink; he’d thought for sure that he had hidden them well enough. Evidently not. 

Now that there was no point in pretending that they weren’t stashed behind the washing bin, John pushed Roger’s legs aside to fetch the box out, begrudgingly offering one in thanks for his mug. Around a mouthful of biscuit, Roger launched into some convoluted story about something he and Crystal had gotten up to during the last tour, leaving John nodding along tiredly. The two of them sat across the kitchen table together, making their way through the rest of the biscuits until they were spending more time yawning and less time talking. 

Finally, after Roger had completely spaced out through half of John’s ideas for a new song, John called it a night, standing up from the kitchen with a stretch. 

“I’m going to bed,” John announced. “Thank you for the biscuits and the tea, but I need to sleep or else I’m gonna pass out right here on the table.” 

“Pussy,” Roger yawned, not even bothering to cover his mouth. However, he mimicked John in bringing his mug to the sink before padding his way to their rooms. 

“Well,” John said slightly awkwardly as the two of them came to a stop outside of his bedroom. “Guess this is goodnight.” 

In the pasty yellow light from the hallway, Roger’s eyes looked bigger than usual as he looked up at John, his mouth pursed open as though there was something he wanted to say. Roger took a tiny step forward as he tilted his head so as to look through his impossibly long lashes, “I had a really good night, John.” 

“Erm,” said John, his heart pounding as he looked down at Roger, desperate to look into his eyes and not at Roger’s lips which seemed to call to him. “Me, uh, me too.” 

“Good,” said Roger. Maybe John was imagining it, but it seemed as though his voice had dropped into something husky, seductive almost. He swallowed dryly. “We should do it again, just you and I.” 

“That...that sounds great,” John breathed, giving up the fight as he watched Roger lick his lips tantalizing. John felt as though he were about to faint. He watched as Roger moved as though to step closer, and he panicked. Quickly, he yanked Roger forward into a tight hug, ignoring his little oof as the wind was knocked out of him, before shoving him back three paces. “Okay, um, goodnight!” 

He scampered into his room, practically slamming the door shut behind him, throwing his back up against the door as though he were afraid Roger would beat down the door and come for him. Panting, he ran a hand through his hair before closing his eyes and letting out a long groan. 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” he muttered. “Be a little more awkward, eh, John?” 

Behind him, he could hear Roger shuffling his way down the hall to his own room, followed by the echoing creeks of his door hinges before it, too, slammed shut. Such a wonderful night, ruined by his own awkwardness and inability to not make things weird. It wasn’t necessarily his fault, Roger had been acting rather weird all night, but not as weird as John was by the end of it. 

However, as John carefully undressed and pulled on his pajamas before clamoring into bed, he couldn’t stop thinking about how _weird_ Roger had been acting. It was nothing like he’d expected; if he’d been pressed to answer, John would have assumed that Roger would have been doing his best to fuck half of London following his break up with Dominique, not just spend every waking hour with John. He was wholly disinterested in dancing, drinking, or Melissa, which was absolutely unlike him. Furthermore, he kept wanting to do things that were more intimate than friendly, if John were completely honest. It was just weird, not like him at all. Punching down his pillow, John rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. Sure, Roger was affectionate and loved to spend time with his friends, but never like this. Instead of treating John like Freddie, he was almost treating John like— like— 

John sat straight up in bed. 

Roger was treating him like _Dominique_. Always insisting on buying dinner, inviting him to movies where he spent more time curled up against him than actually watching the movie, that time he held John’s hand in the restaurant when talking about what to order for dinner, and hell, even tonight, getting angry over being ignored in favor of another girl!

John felt as though his heart was going to beat out of his chest. Maybe he was just reading too far into it; Roger could be just acting like that because of the breakup, but Roger was so adamant that he was over Dominique, that he was looking to move on, that he was ready for something else— _John was the something else_. John lept out of bed, paused, and fell back to sit on the edge of the mattress. 

“Get a fucking grip,” John hissed, slapping himself lightly on the cheek. “Roger isn’t trying to date you, you fucking idiot. He’s just lonely.” 

But was he? 

Roger had gone to Freddie, not John when he was trying to get over the break up. If Roger was lonely, he could find any girl and have her as his girlfriend in a heartbeat, it wouldn’t be hard. And, and, and, Crystal had let it slip that Roger wasn’t exactly straight, so was it that much of a stretch that maybe he was looking for love with someone who wasn’t a girl? 

“No,” whispered John. Because Roger always went for the pretty girls, the ones who had long legs and longer hair and looked at him coyly from underneath their eyelashes while licking their lips— 

John felt faint. It was a stretch, but then again, it wasn’t. It might be crazy, but that was exactly what Roger had been doing, action for action. 

Before he could lose his nerve, John stood back up and marched from his room, rushing to pound on Roger’s door, the blood roaring in his ears. Worst case, he’d get slugged in the mouth and kicked out, but best case...best case he’d get Roger, for however long Roger would have him. Pounding harder on the door, he mentally prayed that this wouldn’t end up in tears and a broken nose. 

“What?” Roger snarled, ripping open the door and just barely missing John’s raised fist. Roger, sleep rumpled and gorgeous, wearing John’s shirt as his pajamas. John’s mouth went dry as he took it all in. “John, what the fuck, I thought you were going to bed—” 

Without a second thought, John grabbed Roger by the face and yanked him in close, sealing their lips together in the kind of kiss that made his toes curl into the carpet. For a millisecond, John was terrified that Roger was going to pull back and deck him, but his fears flew out the window as Roger recovered from being grabbed by tossing his arms around John’s waist and pulling him in impossibly closer. John gasped into the kiss, letting go of Roger’s face so as to slide his hands down, one cradling his jaw and the other grabbing onto his shoulder to keep him steady. 

Against him, Roger almost whimpered as their mouths moved together in synch, hot and wet and so terribly sweet that John felt as though he could melt right through the floor. The beat that’s Roger’s pulse was thrumming against his thumb matched the hummingbird flutter of his own heart; the desperate way he moved against him now blended with the desperation that John had been living with for too many long months. It was too much, it wasn’t enough. God, would it ever be enough?

He stumbled forward, walking Roger backwards onto the bed where they climbed atop each other, desperately trying to hold onto each other as they fell. 

“Jesus Christ,” Roger panted into John’s mouth, licking in behind his teeth before pulling away again to huff. “Took you long enough.” 

“You were too subtle,” John grunted, settling between Roger’s legs as he ran one hand up his thigh, his chest, his neck, to tug on the fine curls at the base of his skull. Roger gasped; John would have burned the earth to the core to hear him make that noise again. He tugged once more, shivering as Roger echoed his pleasure. “ _Fuck_.” 

Roger mewled—and god help him, John was never again going to be the same—as he arched into the touch. “You are literally the only person who thought so,” Roger whimpered. 

Unable to hear anymore, John kissed him again, kissed him like it was his last breath on earth, like he held the key to the meaning of life, like without him he’d die. John pressed everything into that kiss, all the longing and love and pure _want_ that had been building within him for almost two years, for longer than that even. He needed Roger to know that this wasn’t just John trying to get his leg up on him, this was John wanting whatever Roger was willing to give him, be it a day or a lifetime. 

“I knew you’d be amazing at this,” Roger groaned, pulling away to suck and bite down the curve of John’s neck. “Ever since I saw you in that club—” 

“The gay bar?” John inhaled sharply as Roger sucked on John’s earlobe. 

“ _Fuck_ no,” Roger laughed. John nearly yipped as one hand reached down to grab as his arse, causing him to buck into Roger’s hips, forcing a hiss out of him. “Yes, yes, John, just like that.” 

“You like that?” John whispered huskily, repeating the motion just to watch Roger’s eyes flutter close. 

“Don’t tease,” Roger gritted out. “Christ, I knew, I fucking knew you’d be good. Watching you with that girl, dancing, practically fucking her on the dance floor—” 

All the words left John’s brain as Roger arched up to grab John’s face and yanked it back down so he could kiss him again. John felt almost dizzy. If this were a dream, he never wanted to wake up from it. And yet, it was so much better than any dream he’d ever had; nothing compared to the way Roger reacted to every little touch, the way he moaned into John’s kisses as though John’s touch was killing him, how he’d pull back to stare up at John as though he, too, couldn’t believe what was happening. John never wanted it to end. 

And yet, clarity washed over him like a bucket of ice water as he pulled back, Roger chasing after his lips desperately. He was a sight to behold, lips red and swollen, eyes hooded, hair a wreck from where John had been running his hands through the hair while alternatively tugging at it. 

“Wait,” panted John.

“No,” Roger huffed as he once again twisted his lips into that damn moue. Only this time, John could kiss it away, and he did. Quickly, chaste, but a kiss was still a kiss. 

He pulled away again as Roger groaned, rolling his eyes. 

“Why’d you stop?” 

“We’re going too fast,” John shook his head, crawling back off Roger to sit by the foot of his bed. His hands ached to touch; he settled for running one hand up and down Roger’s shin. “I—this is too fast.” 

Roger pulled a face as though he couldn’t believe what John was saying. “Too fast? John, we’ve been dating for _three weeks_ , that’s hardly too fast!” 

Now it was John’s turn to frown. “What? No we haven’t! We haven’t been dating, we’ve been—” 

“Going to dinner, to the cinema, holding hands across the table, staying in and cuddling on the sofa?” Roger drawled as he arched one eyebrow. “Do you do that with all of your friends?” 

John felt as though he’d been whacked over his head, stunned by the revelation. “Dating?” 

Roger rolled his eyes with a little half smile that spoke trouble, “You are _very_ lucky you’re cute.” 

Suddenly bashful at the compliment, John flushed, looking down to fiddle with his fingers, “You think I’m cute?” He closed his eyes as the question escaped his mouth. He sounded like a twelve year old girl. He sounded like _Julie_.

The mattress moved under him, and then Roger was in front of him, chuckling. He crawled over to kneel before John, raising up to kiss him gently. Pulling back, Roger looked at John from beneath his impossible, gorgeous, tantalizing eyelashes. 

“I think you’re _very_ cute,” Roger smirked. “Very.” 

“Uh, me— erm, you, uh, too,” John stammered, shoving down the embarrassment which rose up in his chest once more. He could go over this later, torture himself over thinking the things he did and why he did them then. For now, right here, he didn’t want to think of himself. He wanted to _feel_. Heat was radiating from his cheeks, and he didn’t need to look in a mirror to know that his eyes had gone all squinty. The two of them looked at each other, both smiling sappily. John’s chest felt tight and full, almost as though he couldn’t breathe, but he was fine with that. That is, until Roger moved in again to kiss him, forcing him to lean back. “Rog, wait.” 

Roger paused, narrowing his eyes into a glare. “Why,” he huffed bitterly. “I’ve _been_ waiting! Why wait longer?” 

“Because we’re moving too fast, and I, I want to talk about this,” John shrugged, scrambling to sit cross legged, carefully arranging his hands to cover his lap, which had grown _very_ interested in moving fast. Roger, ever attentive, noticed the tactive, quirking a brow in amusement. “Stop.” 

“I’m not doing anything!” he protested, smug. “Although, I could be doing something to help.” 

The very thought turned John’s brain to mush, and he struggled to swallow. Again, he shifted uneasily on the bed.

“Roger,” he warned.

With an annoyed sigh, Roger flopped down onto his back and reached up to cover his face with his hands. “Ugh, Deaks, you’re _literally_ killing me. C’mon, I’ve been waiting for _ages_ —” 

_Pretty sure I’ve waited longer_ , John thought to himself. But it wasn’t a contest, and if it was, well, John was definitely winning. 

“You can wait a little more, it won’t kill you,” John teased. He reached over to tug Roger’s hand free, rubbing his thumb between the web of Roger’s forefinger and thumb. “I just want to make sure we don’t rush into things, or do anything that you’re not comfortable with—” 

“Trust me, I’m very comfortable.” 

“Well, maybe I’m not,” John said, a little sharper than intended. Roger moved his other arm so as to look at him, concerned. Before he could make a comment though, John cut him off. “Not like that, Roger. But let’s try and talk this through. You’re...you’re my best friend, and my flatmate, and we work together. I don’t want to fuck this up by taking it too far, alright? Or rushing into something that we’re not ready for.” 

Roger nodded solemnly, looking down at a bit of fuzz he picked off the duvet. “Okay. So, what do you have in mind?” 

John took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “I want to properly date you,” he said carefully, opening his eyes in time to see Roger break into a beaming smile. “I want to take you out to dinner, hold your hand across the table, pay for the bill, the works. Now, of course, that I know we’re dating.” 

“I could be okay with that,” Roger teased. “What else?” 

At that, John paused. What else did he want? He wanted everything, anything that Roger would give him. He swallowed carefully, “After, we can renegotiate. But, Roger, I don’t...I don’t want this to be a one time thing. I don’t want you to be experimenting, or rebounding on me. That’s not fair, and it’s not okay. I want you to mean it—” 

“ _Me_ mean it?” Roger exclaimed, sitting upright onto his knees, reaching out to grab John’s hands. “John, I’ve been trying to date you for _three weeks_. Three weeks! You are, quite literally, the last person to know that I’m fucking _crazy_ for you. I literally spent the whole time I was at Freddie’s blacked out on the floor crying about how you’d never lo—never like me back! I mean, for fuck’s sake, John, Crystal had to tackle me away from the phone because I tried to call you at two in the morning and tell you that if you didn’t fuck me I was going to _die!_ ”

Like all the wind had been knocked from his body, John was left gaping at Roger, stunned. Roger, evidently unprepared for the amount that he had revealed, immediately flopped onto his back and covered his face with his forearms. 

“I didn’t know you weren’t straight until Crystal told me,” John confessed. 

Roger let out a bitter laugh, “I didn’t know you weren’t straight until I saw you in the bar with that man.” 

“I only went there to try to get over you,” John added, stomach churning with humiliation as he thought of all the nights spent wasted and desperate, fucking and getting fucked. 

Roger peaked out from under his arms; “Did it work?” 

Now it was John’s turn to laugh bitterly. “No, it didn’t.” 

“Good.” 

John slowly moved to sit next to where Roger still lay prone, cowering behind his arms. Easing his way down, he curled up along the length of Roger’s body, sliding up as close as he could without crowding Roger. Who, evidently, didn’t care. The moment John was horizontal, he rolled over to press his face into John’s chest and tossing his arm around his waist so as to hold him close. John returned the favor, wrapping his arms around Roger’s to cuddle him tightly. 

“I hate the idea of anyone else getting to touch you,” Roger murmured into his chest. John felt his heart flipflop, and he pressed his fond smile into the crown of Roger’s hair. 

“I hate the idea of anyone else getting to touch _you_ ,” John echoed. 

“I don’t think I realized how much I cared for you until I saw you with that man,” Roger continued. “And even then I didn’t fully figure it out until much, much later.” 

“Well, you’re not the only one,” John laughed. “I wrote you a fucking love song and didn’t realize it until a year later.” 

In his arms, Roger stiffened. 

“You wrote me a love song?” he asked, lifting his head. “When the fuck did you write me a love song? Where was I?” 

“You were there,” John huffed. “You definitely had an opinion on it, to boot. _You’re My Best Friend_?” 

Roger gaped up at him before scrambling out of John’s arm to sit up so as to properly look at him. John, wearily, copied his actions. Maybe he’d taken it too far and confessed more than he should have. After all, confessing that he loved him was a bit more than he’d intended to go tonight. 

“That—that was for _me?_ ” 

John furrowed his brow, “Roger, it was pretty obvious that it was for you. I mean, yeah, I wrote in female pronouns, but it was about how much I appreciated you, and how thankful I was— still am— for all that you’ve done for me. It wasn’t until a year later that I figured out that I meant it to mean more than just friendship.” 

“You told me that was for, for a future girlfriend!” 

Shrugging, John pulled a face. “I mean, in my defense, I hadn’t _quite_ figured out that I wanted _you_ to be my future, erm, girlfriend. Well, partner. Boyfriend?” 

“You wrote me a love song!” 

“Yes.” 

Roger blinked, shocked. “A love song! That went to the top of the charts! For me!” 

“...Yes?” 

Roger threw himself at John, mashing their lips together in a heart-stopping, toe curling, angels singing, fireworks inducing kiss that had John fumbling to figure out where to place his hands. The kiss shattered any fears or doubts he’d might have had over Roger’s opinion on _You’re My Best Friend_ being for him and not a random girl. 

Breaking free so as to breathe, Roger pulled back just far enough to look into John’s eyes. John was shocked to see that they were a little dewey, almost as though he was overcome. 

“I love you,” Roger whispered. “You wrote me a love song and I love you.” 

“Erm,” said John, shocked. “I, uh—” 

He couldn’t return the sentiment, Roger was back on him, licking clear into his mouth and stealing all the breath from his lungs. John tangled one hand in Roger’s hair, the other coming to rest possessively on the curve of Roger’s arse as Roger continued to kiss the life out of him. 

“God, I love you,” Roger breathed against John’s mouth. “You should have told me.” 

“I love you, too,” John hummed.

Again, they slid down the bed together, tangling in the sheets as they kissed languidly and sweetly, as though they’d been kissing their whole lives. It was breathtaking and shattering and everything John had pictured and more. And, when they finally began to doze off, John held Roger tightly in his arms, memorizing the way he felt; his warmth, the scent of his shampoo and cologne, the press of his leg between John’s, the gentle way he hummed as he rubbed his cheek against the worn cotton of John’s shirt. By the time he, too, slipped into sleep, he knew that no dream would ever be sweeter than that moment.

*

John woke up slowly. It was warm in bed, warmer than he was used to, and he found himself curling further under the blankets, chasing the heat of Roger’s body. Still in that hazy space between waking and dreaming, John inched his way closer to Roger, twisting his feet so that they were tucked under Roger’s legs, rubbing the arch of his foot against Roger’s calf. Next to him, Roger hummed sleepily, stirring. The thought of Roger waking was unacceptable. Wrapping one arm around Roger’s torso, John pulled him in closer, tucking his face into his neck. 

“Tha’s nice,” Roger murmured, sleep idled. 

“Go back to sleep,” John whispered, pressing the slightest kiss to Roger’s nape. Roger reached down and laced his fingers with John’s pulling their hands up to rest just under his chest. 

“Mmkay.” 

John hid his smile in Roger’s hair as well as one more kiss before allowing himself to slip back under into sleep. 

When he woke next, it was a proper morning. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and next to him on the bed Roger lay blissfully unaware and snoring. John allowed himself to look, admiring the arch of Roger’s nose, the brush of his fringe on his forehead, and even the slack jawed moue of his mouth. In his sleep, Roger let out a loud, honky snore, smacked his lips, and rolled over to breathe sour morning breath right in John’s face. John couldn’t even find the ability to be annoyed; it was everything he’d dreamed of and more. 

With the growing pressure in his bladder growing to be too strong, John carefully slipped from beneath the covers, practically cooing when Roger grumbled in his sleep, reaching out into the space John left behind. He pulled the covers up higher onto Roger’s chest, tucking him in tightly so as to keep in the warmth. 

Once he was satisfied that Roger would be warm, he made his way into the bathroom, washing his face and teeth. In the mirror, he traced the faint bruise Roger had sucked into his neck, a little rosebud that was proof— beyond said man sleeping in their shared bed— that last night wasn’t just a perfect dream. 

No, Roger loved him. Roger loved him, wanted him, had been dating him for the past three weeks without him noticing. John was so happy he could skip. 

Easing his way into his room, avoiding the creakiest floorboards so Roger didn’t wake, John made quick work of shedding his pajamas in favor of his warmest sweater and favorite pair of jeans. Shoes in hand, he tiptoed towards the front hall, lacing up his boots and grabbing his winter coat as quietly as possible. With one last look over his shoulder, he made his way out the door, heading into the brisk January air. 

In the early morning light, everything seemed so much more peaceful and beautiful, from the frost glistening on the windows of the houses he passed to the way icicles hung from the branches in little drops. It was a whole new world, wherein winter was beautiful and the cold was enthralling and Roger was in love with him! If John were in a movie, he’d be clicking his heels and doing a jig around the lamp post professing his love to the whole world. 

Instead, he settled on buying morning buns and coffee for Roger, something sweet to serve him in bed. Their bed. The bed that they slept in. Together. The two of them, in bed, tangled up, together. Because they loved each other. John beamed. The thought of Roger still curled up asleep in bed pushed John to rush to the bakery, eager to get back to him.

*

Returning to the flat, bag of pastries in one hand and the coffee in a cardboard carrier in the other, John couldn’t help but whistle _You’re My Best Friend_ as he skipped up the steps to their front door. He was happier than he’d ever been in his life, and he didn’t care who knew. 

Juggling his keys and the goods proved to be too difficult; he settled the coffee cups down before the front door in order to swing the door open with assistance from his boot. Bending down, he grabbed the abandoned cups just in time to catch the tail end of Roger’s phone call. 

“ —didn’t shag him, Fred, c’mon, I’m not that kind of girl,” Roger whispered furious. John froze, crouched down, desperate to hear what Roger had to say. “I can too take things slow! Jesus, what, you thought I was gonna just rip his clothes off— _I was blacked out drunk!_ Ugh, see if I ever tell you anything again.” 

John had long decided he was a masochist; he needed desperately to hear if Roger regretted last night. 

Roger sighed heavily, “I don’t _know_ , Freddie, okay? He’s not here. No, I don’t— don’t you think if I knew where he was, I wouldn’t have called asking if you’d seen him? He just left...No, I don’t know if he’s having a wobble... _No_ , Freddie!” 

He felt almost light headed with nerves, and mentally began counting back from ten. He was about to stand up and reveal himself when Roger’s next words drew him up short. 

“He’s probably rethinking the whole goddamned thing, isn’t he! No, fuck off, I’m not being dramatic, he’s left! This is the last time I ever let you talk me into anything. I fucking dated him for three weeks and he had no idea and now— do not tell me to calm down! I am perfectly calm!” Roger whisper shouted. “And for the last time, no, I don’t want to go away to Tenerife, stop asking me! I said I would only go if he told me to fuck off and he hasn’t— _what do you mean not yet?!_ ” 

Sensing that if he didn’t interrupt now, Roger would be halfway to a conniption, John made the executive decision to announce his presence. Straightening up, he let the door swing shut behind him, loud in the early morning silence. There was a pause from the kitchen before he heard Roger hiss, “Shit, Fred, he’s back! I’ll call you later!” 

“Roger?” he called as he made his way into the kitchen, coffees still precariously balanced in his hands. “Is that you?” 

“In here!” Roger shouted back. Had John not overheard his phone call with Freddie, he would have assumed that the rasp in his voice was due to grogginess, not nerves. 

Turning the corner, he was caught unaware by the sight of Roger sprawled into a kitchen chair, pretending to fill out the crossword puzzle which was currently upside down. And, upon second glance, yesterday’s. 

John smirked, unable to resist teasing him. “That’s yesterday’s puzzle.” 

Roger looked up at him, confused. “What? No, it’s not.” 

Leaning in close, John placed one of the coffees in front of Roger before tapping the date at the top— January 21, 1978— with one finger. “Today’s the twenty-second.” 

Scowling, Roger shoved the paper away from him in the mimic of a toddler’s tantrum, “Well fuck me, didn’t know it was illegal to do yesterday’s crossword. Sorry for wanting some entertainment.” 

John’s heart felt so full it could practically burst. That was his Roger, fiery and temperamental and still so goddamn sweet. Dropping the morning buns onto the table, John brushed Roger’s fringe aside, rubbing his thumb against the arch of Roger’s cheek. 

“Mornin’,” John said, voice soft and gentle. “I got us breakfast.” He pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, his thumb still brushing against the soft curve of his cheek. 

“Mmmm?” Roger hummed as he blinked up at him, dazed.

“You were supposed to still be asleep when I got back, though,” John said, just as soft. “Wanted to be romantic, wake you up with breakfast in bed.” 

“Oh,” breathed Roger. “ _Oh_.” 

“Guess we’ll have to settle for breakfast in the kitchen,” John shrugged with a half smile. 

“No, no, we can, uh, we can go back to bed,” Roger insisted, moving to get to his feet as he grabbed for the bag and coffee. John, however, stopped him with a hand planted in his chest. 

“Hold on,” he laughed, shaking his head. “First things first.” 

Cutting off Roger’s protests, John leaned down to kiss Roger sweetly, still ecstatic that he was able to do so. When they finally broke away, John was grinning so hard his eyes were crinkled. 

“Good morning to me,” breathed Roger, matching John’s smile with one of his own. 

“Good morning indeed,” chuckled John. 

“Now, you mentioned something about breakfast in bed…?” 

John laughed, tipping his head back. “How about we eat here, then reconsider going back to bed? Besides, there was something I wanted to discuss with you.” 

Roger, who had descended upon the bag of cinnamon buns the moment he heard they wouldn’t be moving, paused. “Oh?” 

Drawing out the moment, John took a languid sip of his cappuccino, relishing the look of annoyance on Roger’s face. “I was thinking about tonight. I owe you dinner at the bare minimum for being an absolute dunce. Any chance you’d want to cash that in and go out with me? As a date?” 

Despite the mound of pastry dough and cinnamon sugar in his mouth, Roger’s smile was still the greatest thing John had ever seen. “Thought you’d never ask,” he garbled, swallowing thickly. 

“Good,” said John before leaning in to lick the taste of cinnamon out of Roger’s mouth. “It’s a date.”

*

Planning a date was, by far, easier said than done. And, even more so easier than actually _attending_ said date. John found himself struggling to decide what to wear, where to go, how to behave— all things he would have considered second nature if it were anyone but Roger he was planning on going with. After years of building Roger-the-boyfriend up as an unattainable figment of his imagination, a pipe dream and nothing more, the sheer weight of the circumstances surrounding the date hung heavy on his shoulders like the weight of the world on Atlas’. 

He knew everything about Roger— about his childhood, his likes, his dislikes, his job, what he did in his spare time. He knew the sordid details of their first American tour and the boring, quaint hours spent locked in their apartment with a Scrabble board to keep them entertained. He knew that he loved to wear socks around the house, but hated to wear them when he slept; that he talked in his sleep but only when he was either truly exhausted or drunk; knew the titles of his favorite novels and songs. John knew Roger like he knew himself, but soon he would know even more. 

He’d know the sounds Roger would make when he was on the verge of cumming, or how he would look when he was desperate for release but didn’t want it to be over so soon. He’d know what Roger would look like in the shower, on his knees, in bed, on his back, on all fours. Whether he’d prefer to be touched softly or rough, held like he was a treasure or thrown over a couch and used until he sang like a canary. If he wanted to be taken or to take. If he liked to be kissed first thing when he woke, or right before he went to sleep. 

John was greedy, and selfish, and he wanted to know everything. Wanted to experience everything, wanted to have everything. John wanted Roger in all seasons and at all times of the day. He wanted Roger and only Roger for as long as he could have him. 

The thought excited him and terrified him; he didn’t want to ruin things like he’d ruined Veronica. He wanted everything to be perfect, no matter what. He changed outfits six times before he decided on one he liked, and had spent so much time messing with his hair that it had grown lank and greasy from his fingers, forcing him to have to wash it again. He waffled on whether or not to wear his platform boots; on one hand, they were fashionable and comfortable, on the other, they would put him a solid four inches taller than Roger. Would he be made uncomfortable by the difference? 

John didn’t know what to do, he was more nervous than he had ever been before over anything. Hyde Park was a merel hiccough in comparison to the idea of Roger and him sitting across a candlelit table, knowing that there was no going back. 

Although, to be fair, John had already been on a date with Roger. Many dates, in fact, three whole weeks worth. Roger had been dating him the whole time and he hadn’t known. Ignorance, was, as they say, bliss. 

“John!” Roger called from his bedroom. John startled from where he’d been standing before the little mirror next to his door. He shook himself out of his daze, reaching for the door and leaning into the hallway enough to shout back. 

“What?” 

“Does this look alright?” Roger asked, slightly petulant as he came out of the room wearing a red and black velvet blazer he most certainly had filched from Freddie’s closet. John looked at his outfit— nice and neat, posh but not in a terrible way — and immediately rethought his white flares and brown button down. “...John?” 

“I have to change,” John blurted out, blushing furiously. “I— you look great, you look amazing, but I have to— I’ll be just a moment.” 

Like a turtle receding into his shell, John yanked his head back into his room, slamming the door shut behind him as he rushed back into his closet, throwing clothes around his room in a panic. Where was that shirt he wore in Japan, the one with the stars? Or had he worn it too much, was it too familiar— 

A knock on his door drew him away, heart pounding in a panic. “Just a minute!” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Roger sighed, barging through the door anyway, not a care to John’s comfort. “What the hell happened here? Did a bomb go off?” 

In lue of lying, John merely slunk back in between the rows of clothing, as though Roger wouldn’t be able to see him behind an outfit he hadn’t worn since ‘72 or a sweater vest his nan had bought him for Christmas last year. 

Roger slunk over to the bed, fingering a top that John had tried on, thrown aside, tried it on again, before throwing it to meet the same fate as before. John had the sudden and humiliating urge to cover himself like a scandalized southern belle. 

“I think you look nice,” Roger drawled, leaning back onto his left leg and crossing his arms. His eyes, heavy with promise and weighted in something primal, raked up and down the entire length of John’s body, causing him to squirm in place. Roger licked his lips, “In fact, I think you look _very_ nice.” 

“Stop it,” John scowled. He had no idea what to do with his hands; he crossed his arms only to unfold them, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Stop, I— you look like, like _that_ , and I...I look like—” 

“Like sex on legs,” Roger murmured, coming forward to run the backs of his knuckles up John’s thigh, butter soft and tender. “Did I ever tell you I have a thing for leggy brunettes?” 

In the space between them, John could see nothing else but the doe of Roger’s eyes. “You flatterer.” 

“Never,” Roger smirked. “I mean it, Deaks, you’ve got legs for days, and I for one…” He, again, ran his hands up and down John’s thigh, sending goosebumps in their wake and causing him to shiver. “Am _very_ appreciative.” 

John’s mouth was dry, and he struggled to swallow, “Yeah?” 

“Oh yeah, baby,” Roger chuffed. He leaned in impossibly closer, John was overwhelmed by the scent of his aftershave. “Can’t wait to show you _how_ appreciative I am tonight.” 

Poleaxed, John barely managed to bite back his whimper, his eyes closing at the thought. Roger’s words held weight, heady with a promise of sex. 

“Unfair,” John whined. “We have reservations in—” He barely managed to free himself from Roger’s gaze long enough to look at the clock. “ —Twenty minutes!” 

“Uh-huh.” Roger’s hand snaked around John’s waist to grab a pinch of his left bum cheek, breaking a yelp of surprise out of him. “Better get moving then, huh?” 

Much to his displeasure, Roger stepped back away from him, but not without another cheeky pinch. John, reeling, grabbed at the door frame for support, watching Roger sashay away, his hips wiggling with each step tantalizing. Right before he stepped into the hall, he paused, turning back to toss a wink in John’s direction. 

“For the record,” he said. “I think you look beautiful.” 

He left John standing in the closet, blushing furiously and struggling to regain control. 

_He thinks I’m beautiful_ , John thought wistfully, exactly like a teenaged girl in a movie he’d have mocked Julie for watching. 

It took him three tries to count down from ten before he was able to leave, still overwhelmed.

*

John allowed Roger to drive, simply because he knew that it would make Roger happy. He carefully gave out directions over the radio, raising his voice to be heard over _Crimson and Clover_. Every now and again he would catch Roger’s eye in the fading light, the two of them sharing a shy smile at being caught looking at the other. It was fresh, and exciting, something new that was on the verge of sprouting into something more. 

John had decided on a local French bistro based solely off the fact that he knew the wine list would be long and expensive and that Roger had made an offhand comment about liking Boeuf Bourguignon. What he wasn’t expecting, however, was for Roger to draw short at the sight of the restaurant, pausing in the gutter with little to no regard for his white leather boots in the slush. 

“Y’alright?” John asked, turning back to furrow his brow in confusion. “Is something the matter?” 

Roger refused to look in his direction, instead looking down at a chunk of ice that he kicked across the pavement. “Erm, how did you find out about this place?” he asked in a small voice. 

John scratched his head, thinking back. “I dunno, Freddie? Or maybe it was Mary, she told me that she’d gone there with a girlfriend a few months passed, said they had a delicious Bordeaux.” 

Clearing his throat as he rubbed the back of his neck, Roger finally looked up at John, apologetic shame washed across his face. “Yeah, um, Dom took her. Here. I uh, I used to take Dom here, cuz of the Bordeaux.” 

Humiliation rushed down John’s spine like an ice bath. He fought the urge to gag as he realized that that was indeed where he’d learned about the bistro; Mary had sung its praises, and insisted he get the address off of Dominique. She’d given it to him one morning over tea and toast, scribbling it down on a corner she’d ripped from her magazine, offering it with a wink while promising that it was her favorite date restaurant and that they were known for their discretion. At the time, he’d laughed it off, tucking the scrap of paper in between the frame of his mirror, as a _maybe_ place, should he ever get over his overbearing crush on Roger. 

Instead, he’d managed to put his foot in it by inviting Roger to the very same bistro he’d taken his ex-girlfriend to. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” breathed John. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, groaning. “Fuck, fuck, Roger, I forgot.” 

“It’s okay,” Roger chuckled awkwardly. “I mean, the food’s great, and the wine’s even better—” 

“We’re not going here,” John shook his head. “No, nope, no, don’t care how great it is, we’re not going here.” 

“No, Deaks, it’s fine! I love it here, I mean, they’ve got this one dessert with raspberries and creme—” 

“I am not taking you to Dominique’s favorite restaurant for our first date, Rog!” John snapped, his hands curling involuntarily into fists. “Okay? I’m going— _stay there_. Right there. I’ll be back, okay, I’m just going to make a call and then I’ll be back. But we are not going here!” 

Running in platforms was awkward, especially when done on icy pavement while digging through your pocket for change. But John managed, skidding into a phone booth on the corner, jamming as many coins into the slot as possible as he stabbed at the numbers. 

“C’mon, c’mon, pick up,” he hissed, bouncing on the tips of his toes. How could he have been so stupid as to choose that particular restaurant? It was almost as though they were cursed before they even began. 

“ _Mercury residence, this is Mary speaking_.” 

“Mary! Mary, it’s John, can you put Freddie on the phone? I need to speak with him,” John blurted out, turning frantically to make sure Roger hadn’t moved. “It’s an emergency.” 

“ _Emergency? Is everything alright?_ ” 

“Yes! No, sort of? It doesn’t matter, but I need Freddie!” 

“ _Freddie’s indisposed...he’s had an idea for a song and he’s locked himself in his room. Maybe I can help?_ ” 

John hit his head against the glass, squeezing his eyes tight. “I need a restaurant suggestion. For a date.” 

“ _A date? Oh, did Roger finally clue you in?_ ” He could hear the laughter in her voice and it was not appreciated. But, he had already fallen on his sword, he couldn’t kick up a fuss when their evening was in her hands. “ _I know this lovely little French—_ ” 

“No!” John snarled, unnecessarily sharp. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “We tried going there. It’s Dominique’s favorite place.” 

“ _Oh, that is a bit of an emergency. Well, erm, let me think. Freddie loved that Korean barbeque place? But that’s probably not fancy enough for a first date. What about Miami’s favorite steakhouse?_ ” 

“We’ve already been there, two weeks ago.” 

“ _Hmm. Have you tried Chrissie? She knows some lovely places._ ” 

“Honestly? The less people that know the better. Can you just go get Freddie? I’ll take the blame for it, please, just grab him?” John gripped the receiver so hard his fingers ached. 

She hesitated, just for a moment, before agreeing, leaving him to listen to the static. It took a few minutes, during which he had to feed more coins into the phone before Freddie came, bitching the whole way.

“ _I hope this is important, Deacy, I’ve had to step away from our next great hit._ ” 

John’s knees felt weak from relief. “Fred, I accidentally took Roger to Dominique’s favorite restaurant and I need you to give me the name of another place within the next two minutes or the night is ruined.” 

“ _That certainly is important. Goodness, darling, you sound like you’re seconds away from throwing yourself into the Thames._ ” 

“Two minutes, Fred!” 

“ _Alright, alright, no need to be so dramatic. I swear, the two of you are going to cause me to go grey, first with Roger spending a whole week sobbing onto my shoulder over you, and then having to hear all about how dense you are. Which, honestly, darling, how did you not pick up on the fact that he was doing his best to woo you?_ ” 

“Freddie!” 

“ _Left Bank, it’s over on Victoria. Will that do?_ ” 

John could have fainted. “Freddie, you’re the best, thank you!” 

Without bothering to say goodbye, John slammed the phone down, turning to go back to Roger. However, when he stepped out, he slammed right into him, almost falling back onto the phone. In fact, he would have if Roger hadn’t reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders, steadying him easily. 

“Whoa, careful,” Roger cried. Once John was no longer in danger of tipping over, he stepped back, mirth in the corners of his eyes. “Where we off to?” 

“Victoria Street,” John said in one big rush, his heart still jittery from nerves. “Shall we?”

Roger gave a mock bow, moving to the side so John could lead the way. “After you, good sir.” 

Forgoing the car in favor of not dealing with the hassle of finding another parking spot, they made there way to the restaurant together, John leading and Roger following as they picked through the slush, walking faster than usual. John struggled to find something, anything to say, but was worried that if he opened his mouth, nothing but apologies would fall from his lips, thus ruining the mood. Roger, at least, seemed content to walk in silence, walking so close to John that their shoulders and hands kept brushing. John ached to reach out and grab Roger’s hand, but held himself back. He didn’t want to push too much, or get caught. Instead, he let the random touch of their hands linger, just enough, so that Roger would know what he actually wanted. 

Fortunately, their walk wasn’t a long one. By the time they reached the restaurant, their cheeks were rosy with the cold, and, for John at least, his stomach was rumbling. John, ever the gentleman, held the door open for Roger, and helped him take off his outer coat before his own. 

“Table for two,” he informed the hostess. She nodded, grabbing their menus and beckoning them further into the restaurant; fortunately there was a table open in the back. 

Waiting until Roger had sat down, John slid into the chair across from him, the nerves in his stomach lighting up like fireworks. 

“This looks good,” Roger smiled, opening his menu and scanning the items. “Lots of good options.” 

“Wine?” John asked, raising his hand to catch their waiter’s attention. “I was thinking red?” 

“Fine by me,” said Roger. 

John ended up choosing a bottle at random, more interested in drinking it to quench his nerves rather than savoring the flavor. Pouring himself a large glass, John made quick work of it, sculling half of it before Roger had even finished pouring his own. 

“Thirsty?” Roger teased, arching one eyebrow. 

“Something like that,” muttered John with a flush. He made himself busy and opened his menu, carefully reading his options. There was a brief moment, wherein John was nervous that they would have nothing to talk about, that things would be too awkward. His fears were quickly sated when Roger started to talk about a song he had in mind. 

Despite, however, Roger’s ability to get a wall to talk, John found himself overwhelmed with nerves. There was too much pressure to be great; a great boyfriend, great date, great in bed. John was terrified that he would muck everything up, that he would say something or do something wrong that would turn Roger off from him permanently and ruin his chances with him before they’d even begun. 

John could barely follow the story, choosing instead to sip at his wine in the hopes that it would loosen himself up and nip his fears in the bud. All it ended up doing, however, was make him feel vaguely ill. 

Unable to handle it, he abruptly stood up, startling Roger into silence. 

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he announced, tossing his napkin onto the chair and all but fleeing to the toilets like a dog with its tail between its legs. 

John threw himself into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him and slinging the lock shut. 

“Deep breaths,” John hissed to himself, his hands shaking as he twisted the taps on the sink, icy water sputtering out. Hunching over so as to splash cold water on his face, he started to count backwards from ten. When that did nothing to help settle his nerves, he repeated it again. 

“Get your shit together,” he hissed at the reflection in the mirror, slapping his cheeks to try and snap himself out of his funk.

Someone knocked on the door. “Occupied!”

He splashed more water on his face, ignoring the rivulet of water that ran down his sleeve. Shit, he thought to himself. _Shit, you’re fucking this up_. 

The two glasses of wine he sculled swirled uneasily in his stomach. Hunching over again, he focused on breathing deeply through his mouth. There was no reason to be so scared; it was just Roger. Roger, whom he’d been unknowingly dating for the past three weeks. Roger who apparently loved him, wanted to date him, had hinted at them having sex later. And here he was, bricking it in a restaurant bathroom, tipsy as shit and making a fool of himself. 

Someone knocked on the door once more.

“Occupied!” John bellowed once again. 

The knocking persisted. 

In a fit of rage, he threw open the door firmly prepared to give the person on the other side a piece of his mind, only to stop short at the sight of Roger leaning against the opposite side, his arms crossed and eyebrow cocked. “Roger—“

Without a word, Roger shoved past him, closing and locking the door behind him. 

“Unable to fit through the window?” Roger teased with a half smirk. 

John blanched. “No, no, of course not, I’m just—“

“Panicking?” 

John flushed. “It’s just, I know we’ve been dating but I didn’t know you know? And now it’s real and I’m really...I haven’t done this in forever.” 

Roger hummed sympathetically, reaching out and grabbing John’s hand, rubbing his thumb against his knuckles tenderly. “I know.” 

“And it’s just…I don’t want to fuck this up.” 

Roger nodded, “You could never.” 

“And I drank too much on an empty stomach,” John finished, closing his eyes and bending forward to drop his head onto Roger’s shoulder. 

“Seems like there’s nowhere for this night to go but up,” Roger shrugged, a wicked gleam in his eyes. John blushed, looking away. “Oh, baby, don’t tell me this is all because of what I said earlier.” 

John twisted away from him in embarrassment, running a hand through his hair; “It’s a lot of pressure! I can’t stop worrying that it’ll be bad, or you’ll hate it, and then I don’t want to think about it because I want to focus on us and—“ 

“Sounds like I need to take your mind off it,” Roger smirked, stepping into Johns space and running a finger down his chest. John watched in horrified fascination as Roger followed his finger down, slinking gracefully onto his knees 

“What’re you doing?” John gasped, scandalized. 

“ _Shhhh_ , baby, relax,” Roger whispered as he started to undo John’s belt. 

“Roger, no we’re in— _hnngg_ …” Whatever other protests John wanted to say were cut off by Roger pulling his cock free from his trousers and swallowing it down in one go. John flailed and fell back against the wall of the bathroom, his hands sinking into Roger’s hair for purchase. 

Roger pulled off with a sinful little _pop_ , licking his lips tantalizingly; “You’ll have to be fast, I’ve only told the waiter you’ve been feeling ill.” 

“That’s not gonna be a problem,” John gasped, his hips hitching forward against his will as Roger again took him down to the root, one hand worming his way into his trousers to cup his balls. John leaned back and held onto Roger’s hair for all his worth, babbling nonsensically his praise. 

It would almost be embarrassing how fast he came if it weren’t for the fact that Roger was clearly pulling out all the stops: pressing his knuckle into John’s perineum, humming once his cock pressed against his throat, and looking up at John with his big beautiful eyes that held so much adoration. If John wasn’t such a possessive bastard, he would beg to know how and when Roger learned just how to melt someone’s brain with his mouth. In his deepest, most perverted thoughts, John had always thought that Roger had a mouth born for blowjobs, but this, this was something completely different. 

John had had his fair share of blowies before, and it was definitely not his first time getting sucked off in the loos. But out of all the ones he’d ever had before, men and women included, Roger was by far and large the absolute best. 

He barely even was able to warn Roger before he came with a strangled yelp, his knees shaking as he watched in fascination as Roger took it all. John’s brain felt like it was full of static as Roger pulled off him, twisting to grab a fistful of paper towels so as to spit John’s spunk into it. 

“Nnnnh,” said John, still dazed. 

“Don’t want to spoil my appetite,” Roger said daintily, wiping his mouth primly as though he hadn’t just sucked John’s brains out through his cock in a restaurant loo. John felt as though he were floating and untethered. “Feel better?” 

John had been reduced to monosyllables as the earth began to move below his feet once more.

“Gah.” 

“Much better,” Roger teased proudly. Crouching back before him, Roger pressed a little kiss to the head of John’s cock, causing him to hiss and twitch, before tenderly tucking him back into his trousers and carefully zipping him back up. Rolling to his feet he pressed his lips against John’s, letting John lick the taste of himself out of his mouth. If Roger hadn’t been holding onto his hands, John would have flown off from sheer joy. 

They pulled away; Roger’s lips were swollen and wet, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright. John wanted to ruin him. 

“Now,” Roger said strictly. “Splash some more water on your face, count to fifty, and then come join me. Alright?” 

John cleared his throat but nodded. With a bright smile, Roger kissed him once more, patted him on the butt, and waltzed out of the loo, leaving John to recompose himself. 

A minute later, John made his way back to their table just in time for the arrival of their entrees. Roger winked across the table before booking his foot around his ankle. Not for the first time, John found himself in disbelief that he’d ever gotten so lucky as so find someone as wonderful as him.

*

The rest of dinner went off without a hitch, the two of them falling back into the easy rhythm they’d always had. Over wine and dinner, they laughed and joked, reminiscing about tours, talking shop, and acting as though things were as they had always been. The only difference was, beneath the table, Roger’s foot was tracing its way up his calf, and John was able to reach across and hold Roger’s hand in his. 

By the time they’d completely finished, John was slightly tipsy and relaxed, ready to order dessert and head home. Flagging down the waiter, John asked for the dessert menu, smiling over the top of it at Roger. 

“I was thinking, maybe the chocolate souffle?” he asked. “Ooh, or the cheesecake, that looks delicious.” 

“Or,” said Roger with a dangerous glint in his eye. “We could get the check and I could take you home and let you lick chocolate sauce off me.” 

John moved so fast his neck cracked. Sticking his hand out, he bellowed, “Check, please!”

*

They didn’t even make it to bed. 

John returned the favor by tugging Roger’s pants down to his ankles and blowing him against the kitchen sink, doing his best to draw out Roger’s orgasm as long as possible. By the time he finally allowed Roger to cum, he was practically mewling, his fingers tugging at John’s hair as he begged so prettily for release. John had to press the heel of his hand into his crotch to stave off his own orgasm. 

When Roger finished, John had unfurled from his knees to grab him by the hand and practically dragged him towards his room. Tossing Roger onto the bed, John climbed on top of him and took him apart again, licking him open and working him up into another frenzy. 

The sight of Roger rolling him over so as to ride him practically into unconsciousness left John breathless and desperate, thrusting up into him with a broken cry before his entire world went white. 

In the aftermath, all John could do was hold Roger tight, wrapped up in his arms and held against his chest. 

“That was amazing,” Roger whispered as he pressed a kiss right over John’s heart. “Where did you even learn how to do that thing with your hips?” 

Blushing, John steadfastly tried to forget the nights spent in a stranger’s bed learning just what made him lose his mind. Unlike Roger, who’d had the luxury, it appeared, of learning at the hands of people he loved and trusted, John’s foray into the scene was more trial and error. He’d spent the better part of a year and a half fumbling in dark alleys and clubs trying to figure out what felt right and what didn’t, and how to please those he was with. But now, now he got to learn and practice on Roger, someone he loved and cherished. 

“Why weren’t we doing this ages ago?” Roger laughed, reaching up to poke John out of his thoughts. “I feel like we’ve got some making up to do.” 

“In my defense, you were the one in the committed heterosexual relationship,” John grumbled. Roger’s finger came dangerously close to poking him in the eye; he grabbed his hand and pulled it down to his chest, but not without pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I was perfectly willing.” 

“Well,” Roger snickered. “Not _completely_ heterosexual…” 

John’s mouth went dry. “Uh—” 

“Is it still straight if Dom owned a strap-on?” 

John felt as though he’d been poleaxed. His mind spinning, he struggled to even find the correct words as he stammered, “S-s-strap?” 

Wickedly, Roger cackled, hard and loud in his ear. “Oh yeah. She was a big fan of it. Got lots of practice.” 

“Practice.”

“Yup. _Practice_.” 

For a moment, John laid there letting it all sink in before he rolled over, trapping a laughing Roger against the mattress as he attached his mouth to his neck, letting his hand slide all the way down.

*

Dating Roger was like having gone his whole life in darkness only to one day wake up to the sun. It was like having never tasted salt before; everything that was once bland was overwhelming and flavorful and better. He’d never known just what he’d been missing until he got to wake up every morning curled around Roger, got to kiss him, hug him, _touch_ him. 

Any fears that a relationship would have ruined them were mistaken— instead of ruining them, it made them better. He and Roger slipped so casually from friendship into a relationship it felt like the most natural and easy thing in the world. 

Every morning, John would wake up in bed next to Roger, curled together like sleeping cats, as though Roger couldn’t bare to be apart from him, even in sleep. Some days they’d both stay in bed until they were forced out by studios and obligations, the two of them slipping into the shower together. Others, John would be forced to drag Roger out from under the covers, yanking the duvet off him and giving him a strong whack on the arse to get him moving. And best of all were the mornings where John would simply wake before Roger, slipping out from underneath him to go make tea, returning once it was done to wake Roger with a kiss. 

It was domestic and sweet and so damn satisfying that John felt like his heart would burst if he thought on it for too long. In the beginning, every morning he’d wake up thinking today was the day that Roger was going to dump him. And every night, he’d go to bed and prepare himself, that it would be the last night, the last kiss, the last time together. 

But that day didn’t come, and three weeks stretched into a month, which bled through to spring, easing its way slowly to summer, and still, they were together. Everyday, John awoke next to Roger, and crawled into bed next to him. If there was an expiration date, John didn’t see it anywhere near their future.

*

John grimaced as he tried to find a better position. Between his legs was a mess of cum and lube that felt tacky against the delicate skin of his thighs and arse, cooling uncomfortably in the night air. They’d stripped the bed of their blankets when they’d first fallen into it; Roger had a _thing_ for his linens, and god forbid one of his fancy goose-feather duvets get a spot of lube on them. 

However, John wasn’t cold. Roger had set up camp between John’s legs, resting his head on John’s stomach, letting himself get pet like a cat. John ran his fingers through Roger’s hair, humming along with the radio as he did so, twisting the blond strands between his fingers. It was domestic and sweet and so bloody tender he felt his heart would burst. He had no idea that he’d ever have something so lovely to look forward to, and he wanted to savor every moment. 

Roger idly tapped his fingers against John’s thigh, forcing him to twitch away with a laugh; “That tickles!” 

Wickedly, Roger grinned before pressing his face right over John’s belly button, blowing a raspberry. John yelped, doing his best to dislodge him by bucking his hips as he squawked, “You’re such a brat, stop that!” 

“Never,” Roger huffed, continuing to blow raspberries despite John frantically pushing at his head in an attempt to stop him, still giggling. Roger, however, managed to trap his wrists with his large hands, using only his chest to push John’s hips down as he continued to blow raspberries, smacking the occasional kiss instead. “I can’t stop, not when you taste so sweet!” 

“I hate you!” John laughed while desperately trying to escape. 

“No, you don’t,” Roger grinned as he held onto his wrists, inching his way up John’s torso, still infuriatingly blowing raspberries. All the way he went, stopping only to hover just above John’s face, his lips brushing against John’s in the mockery of a kiss. “You love me.” 

John arched up, nipping at Roger’s lips as he murmured, “I don’t know why, but I do.” 

Roger kissed him back, sweet and tender, as though John were something to be savored. He pulled back, blinking heavily at John. “Do you love me enough to move in with me?” 

Startled, John couldn’t help but laugh, “Roger, we already live together.” 

Roger shrugged, unfazed. “I mean properly move in. You, me, a house. A real one, not this little shithole. I want us to have a proper house, with our own bedroom and a back garden. Some place that’s _ours_.” 

John floundered, trying to think of what to say. “Roger—” 

“We’ve been here three years now, together. I think it’s time that we get someplace bigger, where you can shower for twenty minutes and not lose the hot water, or where we don’t have to worry about being too loud and frightening the neighbors,” he added as an afterthought, reaching down to tweak a nipple, forcing a gasp out of John. “A home, baby, for you and me. What do you say?” 

John couldn’t have stopped the smile from his face even if he’d wanted to. “I say let’s do it.” 

Roger let out an exuberant whoop as he smashed their lips together, curling up around John and holding him close as though he never wanted to let him go. And John, happier than he’d ever been in years, let him. 

They were going to buy a house together, just the two of them. A house, a home, a place to call their own.

*

John should have known that buying a house with Roger wouldn’t be easy. When Freddie had heard of their plan— and hadn’t that been an experience, finding himself with an armful of a sobbing Freddie who had alternated between laughing and crying in joy— he’d just about collapsed on the floor in laughter. Roger, apparently, had been the worst person in the world to house shop with, which was part of the reason he and John had lived in their ill-fitting flat for so long. 

The first house they’d seen was too small, the second, too big. The third had a terrible bathroom, the fourth didn’t have the right _vibe_. The fifth had been promising until Roger had heard about the foxes that apparently explored the garbage bins late at night. Six, seven, and eight weren’t even worth mentioning. John had refused to go see the eleventh on principle, which turns out to be have been a good idea considering Roger didn’t even bother stepping foot through the door due to hating the front door. 

(“It had a circular window,” Roger had sniffed later that night when they were sitting together on the couch, running his hands through John’s newly cut hair. “It was tacky and terrible and I didn’t even have to look inside to know that I’d have hated it.”)

Twelve through sixteen were again, duds. Seventeen had seen Roger and John having a furiously whispered argument in the boiler room that resulted in John storming out of the home and hailing a taxi back to their flat. By the time they were scheduled for their eighteenth viewing, John was giving up hope of ever escaping their little flat. 

Roger was the one driving, following behind their realtor with all the solemness of a man being led to his death. 

“If you go into it prepared to hate it, you’re going to,” John sighed, turning from where he’d pressed his forehead to the glass to watch Roger carefully.

“I’m not,” said Roger. “I’m just thinking about our checklist.” 

John rolled his eyes. _Our_ checklist. John was willing to take anything that had walls and a roof at this point, it was Roger who was dragging his feet. It was an argument they’d been having since house number five: John was terrified that Roger was dragging his feet due to not wanting to live with him, while Roger was annoyed that John wasn’t taking it as seriously as he was. It was their forever home, as far as Roger was concerned, and he couldn’t see why John wasn’t being more picky. 

“I just want it to be perfect,” Roger said unprompted. “But I feel like this one has potential.” 

“It is the last available house for sale,” John teased. “You’ve turned down every other one.” 

“They weren’t _right_ John! I’ll know when it’s _our house_.” 

“And what will you do if I happen to hate it?” 

Roger cut him a look from the corner of his eye, smirking, “Impossible. If I love it, that means you’ll love it. Trust me, babe, okay?” 

Taking his hand off the gear stick, Roger grabbed John’s, bringing it up to his mouth to press a sweet kiss to his knuckles. 

Before them, their realtor, Judith, turned into a gated driveway. Roger followed suit, leading their car down the windy driveway. There, at the end, was a gorgeous mansion, large but not audacious, and virtually hidden from the road. 

“Wow,” whispered John, leaning forward. 

“It’s nice,” Roger shrugged, bringing the car to a stop. “We’ll see how it is inside.” 

Inside was even grander. John couldn’t help but walk around with his jaw dropped. High vaulted ceilings, a large kitchen, enough bedrooms for the band, Roger’s family, and his, to stay in all at once, a swimming pool, and a sprawling garden that was more akin to a forest. It was large and lovely and virtually perfect. 

However, while John was sold, Roger was keeping his opinion to himself. He’d admired the master bedroom and bath— “Enough room for both of us, eh?” he hissed to John, pointing at the jacuzzi tub. “Told you I’d get us one for our anniversary.”— as well as the three car garage. There had been a minor frown at the setup of one of the dens, but John had assured him that they would be able to decorate themselves. 

It wasn’t until they got to the living room did Roger’s entire face lit up as he practically ran to the fireplace, tipping his head back to look at the uninspired landscape painting that had been hung over the mantle. 

“Deaks!” Roger shouted, waving him over. “Come look!” 

Exchanging a hopeful look with Judith, John made his way over to Roger. 

“Look,” Roger practically breathed, grabbing John close to point at the painting. “Right there, it’s perfect.” 

“What’s perfect, Roger?” John asked carefully. “The painting?” 

“No!” Roger whapped him on the shoulder, not taking his eyes off the painting. “That’s where we’ll put it.” 

“Put what?” 

Roger turned to face him, finally looking away from the painting, beaming so bright John could see his molars. “That’s where we’ll put _You’re My Best Friend_. Right there, for everyone to see.” 

For Roger’s birthday, John had decided to be corny, and had roped Freddie into helping him recopy the lyrics to Roger’s song in much nicer handwriting, accompanied by a little note. It wasn’t much, just a quick _To Roger, I meant every word. Love, John._ However, despite its simplicity, and the ribbing he’d received from everyone who’d seen it, Roger had loved it to bits. He’d immediately sent it out to get framed and hung it on the wall of their home, right smack in the middle of the room for everyone to see. It was, as Roger had claimed later that night after he’d thoroughly thanked John, the best present he’d ever received. 

He searched Roger’s face for any hint that he was kidding, any sign that he might be pulling John’s leg, but found nothing. All that he see was love, and excitement. Without turning to face her, John shouted over his shoulder at Judith, “We’ll take it.” 

Roger threw his arms around him; together they stood in front of the mantle that would soon be theirs, picturing how they were going to make it their home.

*

“Thank _God_ , they’re finally gone,” Roger groaned as he tipped backwards onto the couch, tossing one hand over his eyes to block himself from the carnage that was their new home. The movers they’d hired had done an excellent job of bringing their things to their new home, but it was up to John and Roger to put everything away. “This has been the longest day _ever_.” 

“Hate to break it to you, but we’re not even finished unpacking the first floor, let alone the second,” John sighed, coming to sit down next to him. 

Roger let out a moan, rubbing at his temples. “How did we have this much shit?” 

“We didn’t.” John ran his hands through Roger’s hair, and when he made a sound akin to a purr, did it again. “This is thanks to the designers you let Freddie talk you into hiring.” 

“Ugh, _fuck_ Freddie.” 

John chuckled, droll. “I’d rather you not. I’m the only one I’d like you to be fucking.” 

Roger moved his arm just enough to smirk up at John, eyes glittering wickedly. “What about David Bowie?” 

John shifted, uncomfortable in his seat as he remembered their last record party, wherein David Bowie himself had made an appearance. Over too much alcohol and even more coke, a few offers and... _suggestions_...had been made. Suggestions that were better left unsaid. Or remembered. 

Reaching down, he tweaked one of Roger’s nipples just to hear him squawk. “Don’t be a brat, Roger.” 

Pouting and rubbing at his sore nipple, Roger again threw his arm over his eyes. “This was a terrible idea; who’s idea was it to move?” 

“Your’s, Rog.” 

“And you listened to me?!” 

John didn’t feel as though he warranted an answer, choosing instead to remain petting Roger’s hair. In Roger’s defense, moving into a mansion from their tiny little flat was way more work than they had ever expected; they’d had to buy all new furniture and appliances, they’d hired movers and decorators— suddenly John had an _opinion_ on curtains— and they still had to unpack everything. There was one bonus to all of it. 

“Hey,” John said, nudging Roger so that he had to look at him, which he did with a scowl. “There’s one good thing to come out of all this.” 

“Oh yeah?” sulked Roger. “What?” 

John leaned down to kiss Roger, brushing their lips together carefully. He kissed him once, twice, a third time, before pulling back. 

“We still have to break in all the rooms,” he whispered, thumbing at Roger’s lower lip. 

Roger’s eyes darkened. “There are so many rooms,” he breathed. 

John nodded, “And we have _two_ jacuzzis.” 

Almost immediately, Roger leapt to his feet, tugging at John’s arm for him to do the same. Together, they ran up the stairs, taking them practically two at a time in their haste to reach their bedroom. John, impatient to get his hands on him, pulled Roger back far enough to slide his tongue into his mouth, reaching down to grope at his ass. 

“C’mon, c’mon,” Roger panted, stumbling his way backwards up the stairs, still holding tight to John. 

They barely made it into their own room in one piece, falling back onto the bed together, teeth clacking as Roger, who’d fallen to his back, bounced back off the mattress onto John. They smothered their laughter into each other’s mouths as John made quick work of the buttons of Roger’s shirt. 

“Careful,” Roger panted, breaking free to arch his back to assist in shrugging the silk shirt off his shoulders. 

“You can afford another one,” John grumbled as he licked across Roger’s collarbone, setting the edge of his teeth into the point where collar met shoulder just to hear Roger moan. 

“Not the point—” 

John moved back up to suck his bottom lip between his teeth, silencing any further protests. 

“I’ll buy you another one,” John whispered. Roger moaned in return, rolling them over. Tracing his fingers down the broad expanse of Roger’s back, John eased his hands down the back of his jeans, grabbing onto his bum. 

The wet gasp of air fell hot on John’s cheek as Roger bowed his head, overwhelmed. “Get your fucking pants off.” 

John did as he was told, fumbling around Roger’s desperate hips and wandering hands, all the while desperate to touch any piece of skin he could. By the time Roger had assisted him in divulging himself of his clothing, John was hard and aching, ready to go. 

“Lube?” Roger gasped, his hips thrusting down onto John’s hard enough to spark stars through his vision. Unable to even speak John merely flung one arm out and blindly flopped his hand about in the general direction of the bedside table drawer. Prize in hand, he popped the cap and squirted a generous amount into his hand, slicking his fingers and steadfastly ignoring the bit that dribbled down onto the sheets. Later, he knew, Roger would bitch at him about thread count and stains, but the sight of Roger arching wanton and desperate at the first press of his finger into him left John unable to care. 

Soon, he had Roger rocking down onto him, his eyes squeezed tight in pleasure as he gasped through the stretch while John dutifully recited Leicester City football scores to stave off his own impending orgasm. 

He would never grow tired of how Roger fell apart on his cock. If he could, he would preserve the image of Roger slack jawed and glassy eyed forever, kept display on his wall for everyone to see that it was him who took him apart, who had him falling to pieces night after night with his fingers, tongue, cock. It was John who was allowed to see Roger in his most intimate ways, John who Roger came home to every night. 

Wrapping his arms tight around Roger, John flipped them back over, swallowing Roger’s grunt of a chuckle as he brushed his palm down Roger’s thigh and pulled him to wrap his legs around his waist. 

This close together— pressed from hips to chest, almost nose to nose— John could see every freckle on Roger’s cheeks and each individual lash. It was intimate and overwhelming. Resting his weight onto his forearms, he reached up to brush his thumb against the apple of Roger’s cheek, watching in fascination as he fluttered his eyes closed in pleasure. 

“How you doing, baby?” John asked gently, rolling his hips into a slow grind that had Roger moaning high and long. 

“I love you,” Roger whispered on a sigh, looking up at John with eyes wide with adoration. 

His throat grew tight as he struggled to regain his composure, stuttering to a stop so as to stare down at Roger, sure that his dumbstruck expression gave way to everything he felt. John didn’t know what to say, or to do, he was too overwhelmed with emotion. 

As though sensing his panic, Roger moved to wrap his arms around his neck, pulling him down into a terribly sweet kiss that had John’s toes curling in pleasure and his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. When they broke for air, John nuzzled his nose into the sweat-damp curls behind Roger’s ear, pressing his lips to first patch of skin he could access. Against him, Roger sighed, moaning throatily as they met together, hips pressing tight together. 

John moved to rub their noses together, dipping to kiss Roger on every other thrust, humming in pleasure. It was so much more than John ever could have imagined, and he felt almost dizzy with the intoxicating joy of holding Roger in his arms. He was so happy, he couldn’t help but hum. 

It took Roger a moment before he recognized just what John was humming. He froze, stiffening and clenching tightly down onto John, who groaned, breaking his hum. 

“Are you—?” Roger squinted up at him, his cheeks growing rosy with indignation. “You— I cannot believe— are you fucking kidding me?” 

John sniggered, smooshing his face into Roger’s shoulder as he shook with laughter. The swat to his side was almost to be expected, as was the jab of Roger’s heel into his ribs. 

“You absolute asshole!” Roger howled, trying— and failing— to keep from laughing as John fell to pieces above him. “Here I am, having a moment—” 

John snorted gracelessly. 

“—And you have to fucking ruin it!” 

With a little wheeze, John forced himself to look Roger in the eye as he choked out, “Gotta feel for my automobile.” 

The sheer look of indignation and horror on Roger’s face caused John an explosion of laughter, the action of which had him slipping out from between Roger’s thighs with an unceremonious _squelch_. Roger planted his foot onto John’s chest and all but kicked him off him, still squawking with unbridled laughter. 

“I’m sorry,” John wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes as Roger lay next to him staring blankly at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, I just— your f-f-face…!” 

“I’m breaking up with you,” Roger said devoid of any emotion. “I’m leaving you and I’m gonna find someone who appreciates me.” 

John fell silent, but only for a moment before, his voice cracking from the effort of holding back tears, he asked, “Are you saying you have to forget me? Rather get a new c-carburetor?” 

Roger grabbed at the pillow next to him and whacked John hard across the face. It did little to stop his laughter. John didn’t even attempt to protect himself from the onslaught of attacks as he rolled about in hysterics, fighting to catch his breath. 

“Here— I — am—” Roger yelped. Each word was emphasized by another attack of the pillow. “And— you— ruin — the — moment!” 

“I’m sorry! Baby, I’m sorry,” John apologized. It was ruined by the fact that he was still breathless, unable to keep the grin off his face. Reaching for his boyfriend, John attempted to pull him back in tight, soothe his ruffled feelings with a cuddle and an orgasm. 

“No!” Roger wiggled away from him, twisting to avoid the noisy kisses John pressed to his face and neck. “No, stop it! The moment’s ruined!” 

It was true, in his hysterics, John’s erection had flagged quite a bit, as had Roger’s. But there was little to be done in the face of a warm and naked Roger in his arms, and little John was soon growing to rapt attention. 

“Don’t be like that,” cooed John, his hands wandering down to cup Roger. “C’mon, baby, I said I was sorry.” 

“You’re such a dick,” Roger whined, half heartedly protesting John’s ministrations. “I take it back, I don’t love you.” 

“Mhmmm,” John hummed. The evidence in John’s hand begged to differ. 

“You’re mean to me.” 

John traced the tendon in Roger’s neck with his tongue just to watch Roger shiver. “You’re right, and I’m sorry.” 

Roger pouted. John got distracted by the sheen on his plush lower lip; he kissed Roger deeply, licking into his mouth and nibbling gently on the offending lip. Roger gave up any pretense for anger as he let John kiss him senseless. 

“Honey,” John whispered against Roger’s mouth. “Baby. Sweetheart. Darling.” 

“Asshole,” Roger murmured back. “Knobhead. Fucker.” 

“I love you,” said John. “I love you.” 

Roger parted his thighs; John slipped back between them. They moved together, sharing the same breath as they rocked in harmony, John whispering the whole time; “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, y'all made it!! thank you for sticking through this behemoth of a chapter!! please let me know what you think in the comments, i love hearing your thoughts, theories, and opinions xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> come yell with me about roger and john at my tumblr  talkingismylifewrites


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